The Opie Syndrome

This is back in 95. It was a fifteen minute timed writing exercise

The purpose of this little exercise in writing is to stimulate some honest thought. If it does nothing else, I will consider it worthwhile.

I have no desire to ram my opinions down your throat as a Rush Limbaugh might, or to explore the true meaning of life ala Hemingway. Nor to impress with my vocabulary and literary elephantitus say as Michener, or to make you nervous and jumpy late at night like Mr. King. For I am none of these or their kind, merely a young man confused and lonely in the world that should be mine for the taking. Just to stimulate an honest look around will do quite nicely. Here goes:

The thoughts were driven home to me on a most glorious day. An Arizona afternoon after a somewhat uncommon mid-fall rainshower (all precipitation in Arizona is unusual to me), when the air was crystal clear, the sun was just beginning to descend and bless us with one of those beautiful desert sunsets that seem to last forever. There were still some tufts of clouds hanging around like the last few spectators in the stands after the big game, reluctant to leave in hopes of garnering a glimpse of the days’ heroes.

The sky was setting up for the grand performance, the reds, oranges, and purples all ready to dance across the clear blue stage and dazzle us with the true beauty of Mother Nature. It was in this beautiful setting out behind the Sawtooth mountains, with nothing between us and the Mexican border, but a few Indian villages and some of the most gorgeous desert God has seen fit to create. It was here that my lifelong friend looked at me over the top of his ice-cold Coors beer, the condensation running a little race down the side and falling slowly to Earth to be savored by the desert as some might relish an excellent Cabernet. It was then that my friend asked me, “Mike, What have they done to us?”

Now before we continue, let me give you a little necessary background. The reason we were out behind the Sawtooths in the first place, exposing ourselves to all of this natural splendor, and amber nectar of the gods, was that we were in deep discussion of what I have termed “The Opie Syndrome.” That being the phenomenon by which a man in his mid-thirties, who has recently gone through, or is in the process of going through, a divorce, separation, or whatever mid-life crisis The Universe has seen fit throw his way. This man is separated from his children and more often than not depressed. And this man is watching a re-run of “The Andy Griffith Show, ” when cute little Opie Taylor runs on screen and says, ” Hey Pa, –At this moment several things happen at once.

First, there is the smile; it is a wise old wistful smile, much too old and wise for the years of the wearer. tainThen there is the softening of the laugh lines around the eyes, also a bit too many and deeply etched for a man of his years. With that softening comes the opening wider of the eyes, and if you could look into those eyes, you would see a lost and lonely child, certain the worst is yet to come. Simultaneously there is the heave of the chest (muscular and well-defined Dontcha know), and on the inside the wrenching of the gut, I mean the deep down gotcha by the toes, gut wrench, you know the one. Then there is the little hitch of the chest, and the “sigh,” that terrible, sad and lonely, painful sigh. It would make a room full of roughnecks turn and look with real sympathy on their faces. Then the hitch, then the beginning of a forced smile as Barney says something about, “Andy, you gotta nip this in the bud.” The tears begin to roll down the cheeks of this man as the knowledge that life will never again be innocent and straightforward hits home. And then that once handsome and proud countenance (at least to his mama) begins to wrinkle up, and the tears start to flow in earnest along with the sobs of pain.

Now that, my friends is The Opie Syndrome.