A continuation of my attempt to finish a book I started in December 2017. Posting chapters in an attempt to organize it all and finish. And I now know I don’t have to, but it wants to be written. Why? I’m not sure yet.
I remember the time when we were going down Lockhill-Selma Road, almost to De Zavala, in your car. And we saw a little dog running outside of a subdivision.
You asked me almost immediately, “Should we go back and help it?”
I said, “Whatever you want to do.”
And right away you urgently asked me again, “But do you think we should go back and help it?”
It was clear that you wanted to help the dog. I was happy to help you give yourself permission.
It was a very busy street. By the time we turned back around, we went through a street or two of the subdivision but we couldn’t find the dog.
I was used to most people who would drive by without doing anything. One of my parents even dropped a dog off out in the middle of the country one time when they didn’t want it anymore. I hate that now when I think back.
You doing things like this, caring enough to turn back around and stop for this little creature who could offer you nothing in return, kept winning me over. It was important to me that you wanted to help.
One time after we stopped hanging out, I was driving down a busy street near downtown. I saw a dog that needed help. I had no means to be able to take care of it on my own. No place, no time, no money. But I had to do something. At least try to take it somewhere that hopefully would be able to help.
I pulled over on a side street. I was able to get the dog to come to me. But even before I could stand up after kneeling down to get the dog, it was like out of nowhere an older lady appeared right beside me.
She asked me if I was going to help the dog. I told her I didn’t have the ability to keep it, but I was hoping to find it someone who could. She immediately offered to take the dog. And just like that took him from me, put him in her car, and drove off.
Moments like that gave me boldness. To see God make up the difference between my heart and my ability.
It was your birthday coming up. I was working full-time and going to school full-time. I didn’t have any money to be able to get you what I really wanted to get you for your birthday: tickets to the Formula 1 race in Austin.
You talked about racing all the time. You had been associated with a racing team of some sort in what sounded like a long time ago. Was it called Racing for Jesus? I can’t remember now. Maybe you told me you met Taqui through that racing team? Again, I wish I could remember. But I think you told me y’all had been friends at least that far back. Maybe when you lived up in the Dallas area?
In any event, you talked about cars and racing all the time. You had so many dreams. Two I remember really well because you told them to me multiple times.
One was to be basically a health consultant for a racing team. To be able to give them the best of the best. And optimize them for world-renowned success.
Another was to participate yourself in driving some race that lasted maybe even weeks. And went maybe from somewhere in Europe all the way to China. I think you said that it was only very wealthy people who did that race. And one of the unique things about it was that they did the race in antique cars. From what it sounded like, it was less of a race and more of an experience. I’ll be honest, it sounded right up my alley as far as adventure. I always hoped you’d get to do that one day – and maybe invite me along.
But that was the thing. You were always into shit like that. You liked these fast cars. You liked your Mercedes. You said you used to work for a tailor, making custom clothes. You liked fine dining. You went on excursions to winery tours. Living in Israel for a bit. Studying and interning before to be an architect. Even flying planes and one class or exam away from getting your pilot’s license at one point.
How on earth did we ever become friends when we were so different?! None of it made any sense.
One of my funniest memories is when we were talking about music. And you said you hated bass?!?! I was flabbergasted! Lol! How could anyone HATE bass? Beyond that, I LOVED and still LOVE bass; turn that shit ALL the way up! So I was thought to myself, “Yeah, we are DEFINITELY not meant for each other. God would never give me a man who doesn’t love bass! Right?!”
But to even make matters worse, I asked you what your favorite music was and you said opera. OPERA?! Fucking opera?! Lol! You gotta be kidding me.
I love music! Love, love, love music. I have it playing almost constantly. I can’t sing a tune or play an instrument to save my life, but I have thousands of songs in my library and everything I do or see triggers some associated soundtrack seemingly always running through my mind in the background. If I had a zillion dollars, I’d catalog and promote music just for the fun of it. New songs every day.
But out of all the genres I like, and there are so many, only three I have never ever been able to get into: polka, death metal, and fucking opera!
So that was it – you were right – there was no way we would ever be married. Lol! And I didn’t think that was superficial at all. Haha! This was our line in the sand in some respect, right?
One time I was walking back down Alamo Street in San Antonio to my job at Wyndham. And this big Black dude was driving down the street in a badass truck, windows down, shamelessly bumping electronic dance music full blast. Check, check, check, check, check! Now THAT was my man! Lol! I joked with my coworkers that I had just missed my future husband. Haha!
Because music was my life. God wouldn’t do this to me. Right? How was I supposed to live in silence with you? The idea of not being able to enjoy my favorite music with the person I spend the rest of my life with was like… incomprehensible. You mean I couldn’t freely bass out in my own house someday? Music blasting as I showered, cooked, and cleaned?
Ugh, maybe. Maybe the person would be good enough that I could force myself to be okay with that. I mean my favorite food is seafood and Denise hated the smell of fish. She was really serious when she joked that I couldn’t cook my favorite salmon inside the house. She told me I’d have to cook it outside. And for the years we lived together, she was more important to me than salmon. So I only ate it when I ordered out. And I never resented her for it. If it made her happy, that made me happy. A small sacrifice for love.
But opera, Lord?!
We made a deal. Driving in my car one day. I’d play a song with bass and then you would play an opera song. And we’d try to endure each other’s music. One track each. Neither of us was looking forward to it. Hahaha.
Did I pick “Changes” by Soulstice – the MartyParty remix? I have listened to that song on repeat SO many times. Bass rattling the whole damn car. Never had a system that could fully handle it – dreams!
I remember whatever I played you said you didn’t hate it. You found some redeemable value. But you didn’t waste any time putting your music on right away after. I wish now I could remember what opera you picked. I didn’t think I wouldn’t ever not have you there to remind me. You seemed to know lots of information about opera. I was impressed at least by that. I couldn’t name even one song in the genre.
And we were on one of those great long drives together. You playing your opera music while I drove. And I endured it. For you. We laughed when it finished and I told you that I felt like we had been in the middle of a Lexus commercial.
And that was you. Caring about shit like that. When I didn’t give a flip at all. About brands, about wine, about fancy shit. I used to tell you all the time that I was “country”. In that I cared more for the simple things. Nature, sunsets – make me happy any day, every day. Conversely the idea of strutting around and trying to kiss ass with people who give a shit about stuff like brands never was, and probably at this late stage in the game, never will be my idea of a good time.
I could care less that you drove a Mercedes. To be honest, I was even a bit embarrassed by it. I cared about trucks! Country shit. The bigger and louder the better. It was only until you explained how long your Mercedes had lasted and that it was diesel – only then was I proud for you. But for the look? Yeah, not my thing.
Which reminds me of another funny story. When we were coming back from a day out in Fredericksburg one time. And you were really tired so I offered to drive your Mercedes the rest of the way. And was really surprised that you let me.
That car was like an extension of your body. I remember you meticulously working over and over again to get the beam of the headlights to shine just right. You’d always ask me if I saw the difference, but I never did. But again, it was important to you – so I tried.
And so I drove your Mercedes almost all the way back to my apartment that day. Literally only three or four blocks away. We were so close. But I offered to stop and buy you some fuel. Probably because you treated me to meals and more. And you seemed to always have money even though your work was sporadic at best during the time that God seemed to free up your schedule at least partially in order for you to hang out so much with me.
I didn’t want to take advantage of you. I never even asked you to adjust me the whole time we were friends. Not once. It was important to me that you knew that was not why I wanted your friendship. You only adjusted my broken foot twice – of your own accord when I was telling you why I couldn’t do certain exercises that you were recommending.
So yeah, I offered to pump some gas for you. And you even reminded me before I got out of the car. Like you did so many times before whenever the subject would come up: “It’s not gas, it’s diesel.”.
And I was repeating it in my head over and over as I walked to the pump: “Diesel, diesel, diesel, diesel…”
But my brain had to shift focus when it was time to engage in the process of working my way through all of the prompts at the pump. And my mind can switch gears on its own lickity split like one, two, three – even faster. That’s how I made it this far.
So muscle memory took over. And it didn’t occur to me until I went to put the GAS pump back up: “Oh shit!”
You heard me from the front seat. But I came over to where you were with the window down. Your eyes still closed. Ssleepy. And I said, “Um, Jonathan?”
“No, Sarah. Tell me you didn’t. “
“I am sooo sorry! I don’t know what happened. I had been telling myself ‘diesel, diesel, diesel’ over and over.”
This Mercedes was your baby. And the one time, the one chance you gave me to drive it – I fucked up. BIG time. And just like everything else in my life: when I was attempting to do good. So frustrating, so annoying. Why did I have to always ruin everything with those I cared for the most?!
You took a looooooooong sigh. But you didn’t get mad at me.
One time after my biological parents divorced, we were at my father’s for the weekend visitation. And he was off in another part of his apartment complex. Doing some work, some repairs. And I guess it was my job to do the dishes back at the apartment. Well, I wasn’t used to doing dishes with a dishwasher. At my mother’s house I always did them in the sink. Can you guess? I put the dish detergent for the sink into the dishwasher. I was a teenager, but I didn’t realize there was a difference. And boy did those bubbles blow!!! At some point I ran out of the apartment to try to find my dad because there was no stopping them as they started coming out of the dishwasher faster and faster.
Somehow I found him and I’m not sure even he anticipated what we saw when we got back. In my kid brain, it felt like bubbles were pouring out of the dishwasher and filling the entire kitchen! I just remember my dad exclaiming, “GOD BLESS AMERICA, SARAH!?!?!” Calm, but not exactly happy with me.
But you didn’t even do that. And this was worse. Way worse. I would have arguably deserved it if you lost it. How many miles did your pride and joy have? I think it was closer to two hundred thousand. And all it took was one touch from Sarah to ruin things, eh?
But you didn’t even as much as give me a dirty look. I was so surprised. And you were so tired, too. It would have been understandable.
You were at least relieved that I realized what I had done before I jumped back in and turned the keys to start the car.
We sat there in the Texas heat as you called not your father or your other kin by blood, but Taqui. He had just finished a long day of work. But agreed to get back into rush hour traffic to help you out.
He pulled up with a bunch of GAS cans and some kind of siphon. But before he pulled them out of his van, first he came directly over and gave me a big huge hug.
Now, that was totally unexpected! Not at all what I anticipated.
Both of you. Epitomes of grace that day. When it really mattered. Not just empty words from a pulpit or someone handing out pamphlets.
Wow! I wasn’t used to this. I fully expected the shots of a full clip of shame as unloaded from others in the past. But ya’ll really showed me something I never experienced to that extent before that day. And it had nothing to do with me or what I could offer. It was totally because of who you both were. Your character. Not perfect, but huge deposits again in my trust account.
On top of all that, ya’ll let me stand there looking pretty as you both took turns siphoning the gas. A messy job. Didn’t even let me help. Or as others in past would have done – make me do it all by myself as they stood by and watched.
That’s what happened when I was a teenager and set some fires at school in the middle of what I believe was a legitimate complete nervous breakdown. Cutting myself. Just couldn’t hold it all in anymore. Lost it. And after I turned myself in when I realized people were scared, thankfully the principals gave me grace and told my mother to take me to the hospital instead of calling the cops. But my mother made me pay her back every dime she incurred for my two week stay in the psychiatric hospital. Told me to get my first job after I was discharged. And those checks went to her for a very long time.
I tried to give Taqui money for all his trouble. For the gas cans, the siphon, etc. Not nearly what I thought everything he did was worth. But as much as I could afford as a full-time college student on a $14-16 per hour job. I even gave the money to you to give to him. But he drove with you all the way back to my apartment in order to give me all the money back. Blew my mind. I wasn’t used to that.
And thank God, ya’ll were able to siphon out all the GAS I put in your Mercedes and it lived to see many more days. Although I never wanted to risk driving it again. :)
All that to say the Forumla 1 race was coming up. In Austin right around the time of your birthday. And I really wished I could get you tickets but they were hundreds of dollars even for the cheap seats. Way out of my budget.
But one day I was driving to work downtown and right there by the Pearl at the 281/37/35 split was a HUGE billboard offering the chance to win tickets to the Formula 1 race.
Well, of course I signed up as quick as possible for the giveaway. The company was CultureMap. I never heard of them before and so that certainly didn’t help when it came to me considering there being any legitimate possibility I’d win the tickets. But every day when I drove to work, I’d see the billboard and just mention to God in my heart: “It would be really cool if You could help me with that.”
And that’s exactly what happened! One day I was totally surprised when CultureMap emailed me to let me know that I won the Forumla 1 tickets!! I almost didn’t believe it. I called them up just to make sure it wasn’t a scam or a trick. That I really had won the giveaway.
I was so excited to tell you! I can’t even remember how I did it. But I know there were four tickets for all three days of the event – even including access to the Elton John concert at the end. And I assured you that the tickets were yours. You could invite whoever you wanted. Make it a guys’ weekend – no need to include me. But despite my attempts to dissuade you, you insisted I join you for all three days.
And it wasn’t that I didn’t want to go. I just wanted you to have a good time. And I figured that meant inviting “cooler” people than me. Specifically, skinnier people than me. People who would fit in more. With the crowds of fans who spent hundreds of dollars just to buy apparel with Ferrari logos and the like. When I was much more Nascar and Walmart vibes. I didn’t want you to be embarrassed of me. But you insisted.
And even included me when you invited your brother one day and your nephew another. My first time meeting them. Polite, but not exactly the warmest reception. Although I didn’t expect otherwise. I mean as the theme always was and would continue to be – we were completely different and nothing, at least outwardly, about us being friends made any sense.
It was no doubt that God seemed to have orchestrated us in the first place. Just like the Formula 1 tickets. But maybe those race days were a preview of what was to come. Because although we started out all excited, things took a turn for the worst.
It started when some really nasty weather blew in the first day. Ugly cold rain. Turning the entire venue into that Swamp of Sadness scene from the Neverending Story movie. All the women in high heels at the Formula 1 event looked so ridiculous as they tried to navigate all the mud. But me also. At one point, just like the movie, I literally sunk one leg so far down in some mud that it came up to my knee and took me what felt like ten minutes to pull myself out as you and Taqui, who you also brought along for all three race days, didn’t notice and were continuing to walk farther and farther away from me. Almost lost ya’ll in the crowds, but finally caught up.
God, it was so miserable. Those days at the event. Why would God do that? Why would He give me exactly what I repeatedly asked for and then let it play out so bad like that? It felt like a dirty trick – but that’s not our God, right?
Sarah Nyhan 
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