A Conversation with Dale

    Before I can even get into the conversation this man and I had, I have to explain a few things about him. Dale used to be a roadie for a bunch of 90’s bands; The Offspring, Soundgarden, and Dave Matthew’s Band. That’s just to name a few. Suffice it to say, the man knew music. Which was a subject of many conversations. The man also sustained himself on dry cat food, cheap beer, and sunlight. Dale was no stranger to the couches of his many friends. My couch included. Mainly because wherever he laid his head was where he called home. Not homeless, but a true old-school punk who knew the ropes. Or a beach bum that got stuck in the Midwest. A tall, tanned, wiry man with long, wavy auburn hair. Dale was in his mid 40’s and seemed to have never outgrown his youth when it came to the way he partied. Often showing up drunk or high wherever he found himself. He was one of those “Whatever you have, I will take.” kind of addicts. Though, I don’t hold any of this against him. This is what made him such a unique individual who I still hold in some high regard. 

    It was a bitterly cold night in early January, 2006. During this time, I was wrecked, impressionable, uninspired, and finding myself at the bottom of a whiskey bottle most nights. But the reason for that is neither here nor there and not even a story for another time. I am only stating it to help you understand the state of mind I was in during this conversation. 

    This particular evening, I was lounging on the couch, watching late night MTV. You know, when they still played videos. I think Headbanger’s Ball was on. Around 1am, Dale knocked on my door. Three hard taps, like the damn cops. So, I rush to hide my joint and spray some freshener to try and mask the smell. Cracking the door, I remember he was wearing shorts, flip-flops and a tank top. In January. At 1am. While it snowed. So, I of course, let him in. Before I could offer, he went straight to the fridge and grabbed three beers. Two for him, one for me. I waved it off and shook my whiskey bottle back at him. Dale gave a shrug, cracked one open and sat down on the couch across from me (Yeah, I had two couches), with the usual “What’s up?” greeting.  

    I didn’t have much of a response to that beyond the usual, “Same old.” I still say that to this day. Same Old. Even when I have things to talk about, I do not often impose my thoughts or current situational things into conversation unless coaxed, in a passionate state, or provoked. But if you know me, you know I’m kind of taciturn, introverted and sad a lot of the time. Which is reason enough to be quiet.  

    A long pause ensued while music videos played. I relit my joint and just tried to enjoy the comfortable silence of a friend. That was until Dale jumped from his seat and loudly proclaimed, “It’s all connected, man!” Which were words a shaman would say to me some years later during a roundtable discussion on theology and spirituality. That, though, is a story for another time.  

    Dale’s exclamation made me jump a bit and pulled me from a stupor. “What the fuck are you talking about?” The last thing I was expecting were the words about to spill from his probably very high and possibly drunk mouth next. 

    “I am talking about everything. You know, I have never asked you what you believe in, or anything like that. But I can tell you have an open mind. You are one of the cooler young people around here and I actually like talking to you. So, hear me out...” Taking my joint, he continued, “can it be agreed that there is some kind of creative force, possibly intelligent, in the universe?” 

    I give a slow nod in response. I generally love talking about this kind of shit. He had my attention.  

    “And I don’t mean this all-knowing, all-seeing sky daddy that most religions spout. I am talking about a central source of energy, for the lack of a better word. Where everything came from and where everything will return.”  

    I give another slow nod. I have a general distaste for organized religion and always have. The heresy he spoke sat well with me. “Yeah, I can agree to something along those lines.” 

    “Good. Now, if that is true, everything is connected. Everything has a source. Be it spiritual, cosmic...” He trailed off to take a drink of his beer and pass me back my joint. I sat there, quietly for now, just listening and agreeing. It was a simple concept and sounded like science to me. Years later, some of the things he would say became staples in my current belief system. Dale went on. “There is more to chemistry that keeps our bodies and minds going. The soul...” Wait, the soul? I thought to myself. “Has weight. All the good things and bad things we do either lighten or burden the soul.” 

    “Hold on, so you use the word soul, but deny the existence of God?” I had to speak my mind. I couldn’t stand the contrary nature of his statement. Not then. And not that I believed in a Christian God. But...now, I understand it a lot better. Dale had my attention before, but now he had my interest.  Where was he going and what was his point? 

    “That is exactly what I am doing. There doesn’t need to be this reverence for people like Jesus, Buddha and Krishna. That kind of stuff is inside everyone. The kind heart, the charity, the whole thing, down to the miracles. But so is the worst of things. Everyone could be Jack the Ripper if they really wanted to.”  

    “Well, people also don’t need religion to be good people. Being a good person is just, I don’t know, expected. Though few rarely are.” 

    “That should go without saying. But you are right. See, I knew you were a smart kid.”  

    I cut in with, “So what happens when we die? You say the soul has weight, what were you getting at there?” Not spoken impatiently, but with intent. I was curious and a little irritated to be honest. 

    “I’m not sure man. I like to think Heaven, if there were such a place, would be returning to the creative force I talked about earlier. Just a cluster of consciousness, linked together, living in the Light. And before you ask, if Hell were a thing, it would be here. Now. This place. This time. Just recycled over and over until what’s left of your soul is corrupted. Stuck here perpetually.” A small pause as he lit one of his off-brand cigarettes.  “I think my main point is to just be good. Be good, man.” After that, he went to the bathroom and then curled up on the couch. 

    “Can I ask how high you are, Dale?” I asked as I stood from the couch and got ready to head to my room for the night. It was nearly 4am at this point and I had to be to work at 8.  

    “I’m sober. I haven’t had anything but these beers and the little bit of that joint. Goodnight, man.” 

    “Goodnight, Dale. See you tomorrow.” 

    He wasn’t on the couch when I got up for work.