Michael Abateo - drugs, buses and buckets with holes

The days passed and Michael Abateo felt the futility of each day without Maria slipping through his fingers. He had learned to hide his feelings from those around him. It wasn’t much progress but he told himself at least he wasn’t burdening his family and friends. On the surface, he functioned as everyone else. Only he knew of the nightly despair when he lay in bed staring at his ceiling feeling like life was a game he really no longer had the stomach for. Because of the long endless nights, he’d taken to having a long afternoon nap. His neighbour JT teased him over this habit. Michael had found after months of not sleeping he had begun to dread nightfall but perversely the afternoon nap called out to his soul.

He did not want to wake up from his nap and when people phoned him during this precious period he resented it deeply. His doctor had offered him sleeping tablets but Michael had bad memories of his mother using such tablets. He felt it had given her a good night’s sleep at the expense of mental clarity. She would mix up people’s names, forget what had happened, lose her handbag and even her way home. It might not have been linked to his mother’s lifetime habit of two paracodol Tablets every night but Michael had been flabbergasted to discover how many of his own contemporaries were also heavily medicated.

His collapse after his wife’s death had triggered a painful honesty from both friends and neighbours. And he reckoned most people created a façade to hide the pains they endure. This veneer of normality was sustained at all costs. Michael had begun to think of it as a shell. Most people were like snails with a hard exterior shell and a soft centre.  Grief had somehow turned Michael into an exposed slug with no shell of protection at all.  Everyone noticed his vulnerable state. Suddenly, others opened up to him about their own depression, the Valium, their sleeping tablets, their unfaithful spouses, chronic illnesses and the people who had stolen their inheritance. This last point about wills and inheritance had been so toxic in nature Michael had even found himself watchful of his own children for a while. Then he realised that in their case he had to control them vigilantly to ensure he paid his own bills because they were both so anxious to support him financially. An independent person all his life he was not about to except handouts from his own children! Another side of him, however, was so relieved that they seem completely devoid of any desire of property or belongings. There seemed to be an epidemic of materialism and he was delighted to discover his son and daughter both seemed immune. Of course, his wife had probably ingrained that habit in them. They often joked that she could give away her own coat in a storm. She was generous by nature and always thinking of others, visiting hospital patients, picking up groceries for elderly neighbours. The children soaked up her kindliness as their birthright and Michael loved to see how clearly, they reflected her habits even today.

He and his wife had repeatedly disagreed on only one thing during their long marriage and that was politics. They both supported opposing parties and would have long intricate debates were each would try to convince the other of the truth of their side. Neither would give up. Michael sometimes felt that these intense discussions with his wife helped to improve his arguments when sitting chatting in the café with his friends. Having been exposed to her arguments and points he was ready and armed to counter similar arguments from others. Although they disagreed on politics they had enjoyed the many heated discussions. Michael was proud that she had a good brain and could make rational pertinent points in a debate. He needed to keep himself on his toes to even meet her halfway.  But since she had gone he had no stomach for politics of any sort.  In fact, his son and daughter had been arguing about some political happenings at his table on a Sunday when Michael had silently lowered his forehead to the table and wept.  Michael felt his tears were a slug trail he left in his wake over which he had no control. They had been devastated by his sudden grief and he could not explain, for the life of him, why all things political suddenly made him want to weep as if his heart was broken.

There were other changes he’d noticed.  Fiestas to him had become noisy firework events that left streets full of tiny pieces of paper impossible to clean away. Since he had been cleaning the house in Valetta he hated the endless slips of paper which blew behind gates, got into drains and even under doors. The endless fireworks, which in his youth had excited him, now caused sudden chest pains that he struggled to hide from his family. Their unexpected bangs made Michael put his hand over his chest to still his fluttering, panicked heart. 

His father had been a hunter but now Michael could not understand those who blasted the birds from the sky. He did not share their enthusiasm for killing or their love of guns. His father had come through World War II and had seen what guns could do. He had often taken Michael to the military graves above Pembroke and read out the names and ages of those youngsters who had paid with their lives. Once he’d found the name Archer, 24 years old on a grave and it mentioned that he was an only child.  His father had pointed out that instead of that family having their only son marry and have family and then grandchildren all those dreams and hopes had died with Archer’s death.  “Can you imagine? He’d asked Michael, “Can you feel the loss, the pain?  “A whole family line ended here in this grave!” “That’s all that’s left.” His father’s voice had filled with emotion at all those lost lives stolen by a war.  Only now, a grandfather himself did Michael understand some of his father’s emotions.  Before they left the graves, his father would always bow his head in respect in silence making Michael do the same. Guns were not just for hunting, his father had said, they also took human lives. His father had lectured frequently him on how to clean the barrels of guns, put on the safety catch and on the savageness of war.  The birds his father shot were always eaten and never wasted. It used to be Michael’s job to clean the birds and he had complained long and hard that was too much work for too little meat. His father didn’t like people keeping birds in cages either. He told Michael that humans couldn’t fly so they imprisoned those who could out of sheer jealousy.

Michael liked to go to the hardware shop. The proprietor Joe was a sharp-tongued character who showed Michael absolutely no sympathy. For some strange reason, it made Michael feel more normal. Joe’s attitude was if you have a pipe to cut, join or seal etc he'd sell you something but if you want to chat, get sympathy or gossip you were “In the wrong shop!” This phrase was frequently shouted at customers. The entrance to the shop was a tiny corridor almost blocked by ladders, fans, ropes and gadgets. There was usually a queue because although Joe had no people skills he was an excellent handyman and could usually fix anything. That morning Joe had waited in line mop bucket in hand. When his turn came Joe had put a bucket on the counter and said,

 "There’s a hole in my bucket!”

Joe scratched the back of his head and examined the bucket, and pointed out,

 “You’re not lucky with buckets, are you?  The last one you brought in, the wheels broke off, didn’t they?

Michael nodded and explained,

“I don’t know why they keep buying me these fancy new buckets with wheels or holes for my mop. What happened to just plain old normal mop buckets?

Joe groaned,

“I remember you kept complaining the last time that the wheelie mop bucket kept tipping over. Now you’re missing the lid that should cover this hole here at the bottom.”

He looked at Michael and accused him,

“It would’ve been in the box it came in. You probably threw it away by accident, didn’t you?”

Michael admitted, “I might have, by accident”.

Joe examined the bucket and then took a swig of a small bottle of orange soda on his counter.  Michael asked,

“Do you have a stopper, cork or something that would fit the hole?”

Joe snorted angrily,

“No!”

 And then he carefully screwed the lid of his orange bottle over the hole. It was a tight fit but it snuggly covered the tiny exit. One more twist and the job was done.

Joe, held out the mop bucket to Michael and said,

“Go and sin no more!”

Michael asked tentatively,

“How much do I owe you?”

Joe, glared into Michael’s eyes and said,

“200 euros! It is a unique custom-made fixture, the only one in the shop”.  Then to Michael’s surprise Joe had started singing that old rhythm,

“There’s a hole in my bucket dear Lisa, dear Lisa”. 

Michael stood unsure and Joe shouted,

“Go on, I’ve better things to do than waste time on you and your buckets.  I won’t charge you a cent if you get out now!”

Michael left and the man’s annoying brusque temperament perversely felt like a breath of fresh air.

Michael used buses now. He’d found his coordination had begun to fail when driving. It was hard to let the car go but harder still to be driving long past the point of safety. When he looked at his grandchildren and their young friends he knew he'd made the right decision. They were far too precious to risk on roads with him behind the wheel. Buses were his main means of transport and he liked the company and the noise. People always gave him a seat for which he was deeply grateful. Being old has some advantages! He needed a seat because of the jerky driving of bus drivers as they raced, swerved and stood on brakes unexpectedly. He had been on one journey where the tourists were packed in like sardines and someone was obviously leaning on a buzzer (the stop button) by accident. But, the bus driver, Hugh was sure someone was deliberately “fucking with me” as he put it. He shouted abuse over his shoulder at the busload of puzzled and surprised tourists.  He cursed the rest of the way to San Gwan in Maltese and Michael sighed because he understood him all too well.  The bus driver’s father was a regular at Michael’s café in the village.  The old father had told Michael in private about his grandson’s drug addiction and the heartache it had brought everyone especially Hugh. Michael knew that the driver’s anger was not really directed at tourists but at those who made money out of his son’s addiction.  The boy regularly stole from family members had drifted into petty theft and then drug dealing. This had resulted in him being in and out of prison or rehab. Others had urged Hugh to cut off his son and free himself of the constant heartache and expense.  But as Hugh had told a relative, “I feel my son is in a deep dark well and there is only a long thin thread from him to me. Everyone is urging me to cut this last link but I cling to this thread. I cannot get him out of this hellhole but I will hold onto this thread of love. ”

As Michael exited the bus he told Hugh to give his greetings to his father and smiled at him.  Instantly Hugh’s scowl had lifted and he smiled back at Michael recognizing him. He told Michael,

“Call and see us, will you?  The house is too quiet these days!”

“I will,” said Michael, “and tell Evelien she is still the most beautiful girl in the south of the island!”

Hugh laughed and queried,

“Not the most beautiful in Malta?”

“No”, Michael responded with a chuckle, “that would be my Maria.”

It felt good to say his wife’s name again with laughter and pride.

Hugh nodded and agreed,

“Inside and out Michael, she was beautiful!”

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Michael walked out the door and waved over his shoulder at Hugh.  He would remember this moment it felt like the first genuine feeling of happiness he had felt since losing Maria. 


The two links below give older stories about Michael Abateo

part one - Maria and Michael Abateo forty winks

part two - Michael Abateo deals with dirt and life

Exuberant Glee

Forgotten days

Of rain and beach

Riding on our inflatable double-mattress

borrowed from our tent

with my brothers in Cranfield

You tried to stay in the centre

otherwise, the waves knocked you into foaming fun

The screams, the laughter

the realisation

That joy is not dependent

On blue skies and sunshine

It springs from endeavours on challenging seas

Alongside loved ones

Exhilarated by the stolen roller coaster ride

Skin numb with cold

Hair tangled dripping ropes

Face red and wind whipped

The only idiots

In the sea

On a grey rain lashed shore

Buffeted by winds and waves

We scream our triumph

To the sea birds above

Adrenaline pumped

We ride the rough Atlantic waves

With exuberant glee

Joy wrestled from

grey skies and seas

What a glorious day!

Flying, seats, glasses, courtesy - missing links

On the plane from Malta to Belfast, I ended up on the last seat at the back of the plane. It serves me right for not paying for a specific seat in advance. I was just being mean, didn’t want to spend any more money. In punishment, I was right beside the toilet door and in an ideal position to study humanity queuing as it headed to relieve itself on a long flight. 

But as the plane took off from Malta I was more distracted by the lady at the window seat on my row who kept two glasses over both of her ears during takeoff. These were clenched with great force on either side of the head. I just could not resist asking her husband, who sat between us, why she did this. He told me that on previous flights she always had to suffer from pain in her ears for two days after each flight due to the change in air pressure.  One day a year ago a stewardess told her that holding two glasses over both ears on takeoff and landing would save her from this delayed pain. It did look strange but if it did the job why not?

I was a little concerned when we came in to land in Belfast because although I anticipated the glasses on her ears action, I had not anticipated that as the plane was actually about to touch ground she would take the glasses off and dramatically grab the seat in front with both arms screaming “I don't like this!” again and again. My confusion grew when her husband also grabbed the seat in front of him and screamed “I don’t like this!” repeatedly in strange unison with his wife. Wanting to do my bit to distract them, I asked the husband what he did for a living. It turns out he builds planes. I wondered what he knew about planes that I didn’t!

On arriving in Belfast Airport I was faced with the most annoying aspect of travel in N. Ireland - the transport system is not integrated.  The train lines actually run right to the airport but the trains do not run on this line anymore.  

Instead, the nearest working train station is only a 10/15 minute drive away in Antrim Town.  Perversely, the only bus running to this train station is every hour.  So you face an incredible wait unless you happen to be lucky and the timing is perfect.  You can catch a bus to Belfast fairly regularly from the airport but since my family home is north it goes against the grain to head south in order to go north.  There is consistency in N. Ireland in that the only other airport the George Best Airport is also not connected to the railway system.  This is even more perverse as the train runs to a halt called Sydenham halt hidden out of the way and a good walk from the airport.  I have no idea why in Northern Ireland our transport system is not connected to the rail service. 

It is either to annoy visitors or for the benefit of local taxi drivers who benefit greatly from this odd state of affairs.

Eventually, I managed to catch the early bus to Antrim and find myself on the train heading north. It is quite a new train and the carriages are surprisingly clean. However, the overhead information screen in each carriage is completely wrong. For some reason, it tells you that the forthcoming station is the one that you've just left. Everyone who is local seems to know this. Perhaps it's some kind of strange joke played on those strange to the country.

As I walk on the train looking for a seat I am aware of that UK phenomenon of booking seats. This involves people placing on the empty seat beside them their newspaper, their bag, their coat, their umbrella and any shopping they may have. All of this is a barricade to prevent someone sitting on the empty seat beside them.  

Fortunately, UK citizens are only bluffing. One simple polite request “Is this seat free?” will instantly get the response “Of course please sit down!” and all offending material is removed. I love the fact that their intent is obvious but their instinctive good manners require an instant surrender.  

I'm also shocked by their politeness. The default position is to apologise. Queueing is sacrosanct. One is never meant to push in.  Queueing for the British is a semi-religious practice. Apologising is also so ingrained that if you walk into a British person they will instantly apologise to you.  I find it so lovable and quaint.  It is only when you live abroad that such things make you smile so much.

The Ring of Protection

They’ve just appointed a minister of loneliness in the UK. You may be surprised or sceptical but I take it as a welcome recognition of one of the major sicknesses of today’s world. The condition afflicts not just the elderly but also children, youth and middle-aged etc as well. 

I have long observed that children will choose to operate like herds or packs. It is much more interesting for them to have all that company and interaction. They learn best by observation, how to communicate and live. However, in today’s world of destruction, they also experience the toxic pressures of social media, materialism, alcohol, drug and other forms of addiction.  These forces blight lives at any age but for children, they are particularly detrimental. Before they even begin to discover who they could be, such forces mould and distort them.  Self-harming is now too common, suicide numbers are growing, bullying is being carried out in school, at work, in neighbourhoods, homes and online.  It should be recognised that bullying and abuse does even worse damage internally than it does externally.  Those psychological scars are carried unseen and the fall out to the wider society grows. 

Unfortunately, predators easily identify those already damaged or easy prey. Just as a lion will target the eldest, weakest or youngest member of a herd of buffalo so to do human predators. What are the habits of predators? Well, they are remarkably similar to methods always used to break the human spirit (read about Solzhenitsyn's Gulag: The Simplest Methods which Break the Will).  They follow a systematic and indeed predictable pattern. In fact, at a UN conference in New York more than 15 years ago the speaker called for domestic abusers to be identified for the protection of others. Claiming that it was far easier to pinpoint abusers than to identify victims. Serial domestic abusers move from one victim to the next one while authorities question the morality/lifestyle/choices of these victims.  Instead, red flags that people are abusers are ignored.  Their need for increased control, their insistence on isolating victims from family and friends, their violence becoming more brutal during pregnancy and their violent outbreaks often being followed by sincere apologies etc are all standard textbook behaviour.  Things are changing. The Metropolitan police use a questionnaire for victims that asks the right questions to not only identify the presence of abuser but to flag up the degree of risk to the victim and save lives. Claire’s Law has been introduced so that people have the right to be informed if their new partner has a history of being an abuser.  This seeks to block the dreadful cycle of abuse continuing with another victim following in the footsteps of so many before them.

Perhaps there are lessons here for other situations.  In the playground, at school, too often the victim of bullying is lectured on being more assertive, standing up for themselves, avoiding disputes, not being alone and their parents consulted as to how they can help.  Teachers are instructed to try and protect the victim.  But all of these practices studiously ignore targeting the bully, the abuser.  Too much time and energy have again gone into quizzing the victim when actually more attention needs to be directed against the abuser and all the other unseen/uncomplaining victims they also target.  Justice needs to be tempered by compassion but there is a fundamental need for it also to act and be seen to be effective.  Not doing so, fails the victims and also encourages and empowers new would-be bullies.

Why is this tied in with loneliness? What can protect the young or old from that lioness is the herd of buffalo itself. The healthy and strongest form a circle inside which the old, young and weak are protected. Unfortunately, today’s isolation plays into the hands of predators. There are too few eyes to see, too few friends, relatives and neighbours to care.  In this new landscape, we spectate in the virtual world of entertainment. Inoculated from our neighbourhoods, those predators of body, mind and property find ample room to lope behind weak defences and run riot. It seems the best we can do in response is to throw money at the social services to mop up the damage.  What is the answer?

We are responsible for the herd.  When the young Jamie Bulger (aged 2) was being led to his death by two older boys (aged ten) they were noticed by 38 individuals.  Two members of the public did stop the boys and questioned them because of the crying and distressed toddler but did not act.  Those individuals were not to know that inaction on their part would allow a hideous murder of a vulnerable toddler.  

All of us need to know that we are responsible to and for each other. Every child you see deserves your care and protection if they need it. Each abuse victim should feel your concern. The elderly or ill should experience your kindness and engagement. Those who are targeted because of race, religion, colour or sexual persuasion need us to be more proactive in their defence.  It is not easy but understanding the psychology at work and knowing a few successful strategies in advance gives us choices (Bystander Intervention).  Not knowing is a disservice to ourselves and others. We must fight loneliness on every front.   Then, predators will experience the wrath and strength of that ring of protection and step back.  

If you talk less, they listen more

My father’s attitude to looking after multiple grandchildren was rather unique. I like to think he had an odd mixture of backgrounds that lead to experimentation. His mother had died when he was very young (around two or three) so in one way he could easily relate to lonely and unusual children. Fortunately, his mother was one of 12 siblings so, on the other hand, there was an excess of aunts and uncles and cousins to lavish care and attention on him.  His sociability probably sprang from this huge extended network which he took long road trips to renew and strengthen over the decades.

Then, he was the headmaster of a secondary school and had taught in the UK, Canada and Australia. That gave him ample opportunity to get to know the developing mind of a wide range of youngsters. So, when he had grandchildren one would have figured he would use his extensive educational experience to great advantage.

However, he claimed that the best way to look after a herd of grandchildren was to leave them alone. He would generally take them to a huge flat beach where they could walk for miles and only get ankle-deep in the sea. Then, he would studiously ignore the children but follow them from a safe distance. He claimed parents were far too interfering with instructions like “Take your socks off”, “Keep your shoes on”, “Where is your coat!” “Do you need a drink?” Or be the font of too much useless information, “This is a limestone rock”, “Here is the shell of a mollusc” or “This sea is called the Atlantic?”

Or constantly made fear-inducing statements like “You could easily drown”, “The sun is really bad for your skin”, “That dog might bite”, “Beware of strangers”, “You could easily get lost, be careful”.

Instead, he felt that silence allowed the child to really explore their environment in a much more personal and intimate way. He discovered a herd of small children usually unconsciously appoints a natural leader and they keep the group together. All his energy would then be devoted to ensuring safety not distracting conversations. Adults feel the need to talk, inform, respond, elucidate to each other but especially to children. The frightening reality, he claimed, was that most talk is just gibberish and many of us have come to so many false conclusions it might be much safer to opt for silence instead.

Children were clean slates ready to write their own reality, he felt, and thought it really unfair to interfere or mess them up. This hands-off attitude changed when he had just one child in hand. Then, he’d question them mercilessly trying to work out how they thought, what they valued, their views on things etc. It was that unique ability to flick from silent bystander of the group to loving inquisitor of the single child that build epic bonds with children. When children sense you don’t need them to be an audience they relax. If you talk less, they listen more when you do speak. If you respect their space both physically and mentally they sometimes gain much more.

A friend recently described being in Africa on the savannah and learning that by walking a few steps in one direction stopping and then heading in another and stopping repeatedly, the nearby animals grew used to his presence and began ignoring him. To them, he just seemed to be another grazing animal. 

Perhaps by adopting the same approach with young children we can get the necessary closeness to observe the important interactions they’re experiencing rather than our own flawed expectations.