TBT #72: Bob Barker’s Place in History

Now: A time for defining things. You reach a certain age and all that posturing you did in youth becomes almost regrettable. Those bathroom mirror declarations, full of equal parts hope and disdain. Disdain for mom, dad and every other old person who shuffled but did not walk, who looked but did not see, who touched but did not feel. Reeling from platitudes and personifications of my future self forged in too much Holden Caulfield, Joey Jeremiah, Transformers and game shows. Almost shouting the words, wanting them to appear underlined, italicized and bold, in a gigantic font floating between me and the shower-steamed glass: I will not be like you. I will not compartmentalize, define, obsess and stress. I will hold on to this face in the mirror, even as the vague hints of acne and brightness in my eyes fade. I will do things differently.

Bob Barker: An orange man in bright light. Holding a microphone under a wide smile, all dimples and wrinkles caked with thick day-glo make-up. There’s an obese woman next to him, jumping up and down. Her breasts sag and bounce and then she kisses him on the cheek. He makes small talk — where you from? show me your shirt –, and I stare with my mouth open, sitting on the couch, unable to move until he announces the next game. I have a million things to do today, but if it’s Plinko or that one with the mountain climber, I just know I won’t be able to move.

Me: Unashamed of where I have been. I’m good about it. I always tell them on the first date. Yes, I spent time in prison. And no, I was not an innocent man. And they always look shocked, sometimes offended — as if my actions as a youth were such an insult to something they hold dear — but I don’t feel the need to explain beyond that. I am not proud of my time in Kingston, but I am at peace with it. Inevitably, though, they always follow this information with a question of their own: What did you do? Why were you in jail?

How to live your life (then): Do not settle. There is nothing more important than that. Look at the people around you. The dye-job blonde on the bus that clutches her shopping bags to her body, cradling the small one, eyeing the black man next to her with monumental suspicion. The comb-over sitting at the bar, away from you and your friends on a Friday night. Watch how he talks to no one but still frowns and smiles intermittently, staring only at the bar, following the wood-grain with his eyes, all the way to the edges. Stand on the street, boots in the slush, hands in your pockets, and watch the world go by. You can see who settled. They’re the ones with permanent creases on their forehead and shoulders that hunch over unnaturally. They’re the ones living in their heads; they talk, laugh, party and love in their heads, and only in their heads. And I will not be like them.

Bob Barker: The foremost supplier of toothbrushes and other hygienic products for prisons in North America. There was no handle on my toothbrush. Instead, the head of the toothbrush was attached to a soft tiny sleeve that slipped onto the tip of my finger. It never stayed on right. It would fly off my finger every time, smacking against the wall of my cell and dropping to the floor. Bending over to pick it up, there was his name, printed in a plain font on the back of the brush head: Bob Barker. Bob Barker, grinning, smiling, chatting nicely with the obese woman with breasts like a bouncy castle, and making me a toothbrush that sat on the tip of my finger only to fall right off. Bob Barker, concerned for my safety, manufacturing a toothbrush so perfect that, even if I wanted to, I could not sharpen to a point and stab into the ribs of the man in the weightroom who will not leave me alone.

Growing up: Vague, proud, wandering. I bought a camera with some money I made working for a tele-marketer, the summer of my 3rd year at college. I was going to do something with this camera, though I wasn’t sure what. I had tried once to learn about photography; I even bought a book about it. But that sort of reading was so dry and the technique so boring. It advocated setting up your shots carefully, and taking dozens of the same picture in order to capture one good one. But I wanted to be more pure than that. So I discarded all knowledge the book had given me and simply walked through town, holding the camera at weird angles — at the ocean, at the homeless man on the corner, at the pigeons near the steps to my apartment — and clicked. Brilliance, I reasoned, should be organic, untainted and spontaneous: pure.

How to live your life (now): Define everything. Set limits for yourself. Control the elements of your life, and discard those too uncontrollable. Work long hours even if you do not enjoy it. Only read on planes. Eat food from a plastic tray. Walk when you can’t drive, but don’t enjoy it. Resent it. Because it’s so slow and you have places to be. Read the side of every food item. Assume first that everything fun, good tasting or enjoyable is bad for you. Get eight hours of sleep each night.

The pictures I took in college: Blurry and dark.

Her: The equalizer. Long dark hair that looks better when she doesn’t brush it. Eyebrows that arch so perfectly over her deep-green eyes so that she always looks so surprised to see me. Wearing scarves in the winter, sandals in the summer, squeezing my hand with hers every time she leaves, even if only for a second. Taking my i love yous. Taking them on cross-country trains and in smoke-dark bars. Taking them and holding them to her as we skid the car down icy roads, as we build a baby crib in the extra room, as we shoot champagne corks at the ceiling, as we hold hands under the stars, as I run my hands across her face. She takes my i love yous, as I take hers.

Bob Barker: A black belt in Karate. Able to disarm a man in the blink of an eye. Able to kill you where you stand in a single breath. Was awarded a black belt from trainer Chuck Norris, his sparring partner to this day. They work together in Los Angeles. Barker grins in his white sweats, his dark eyes standing out from his orange complexion. A playful fire in his voice, he calls to Chuck Norris: “You are going down today!” But Norris only laughs in his black tights, his full beard moving majestically with his face. They bow quickly and Barker strikes. His back roundhouse kick is blocked, and Norris retaliates with a palm strike, targeting the eight-year-old’s chest. Barker is surprised, but rolls with the strike and crouches, in one swift movement. He sweeps his leading leg at Norris, who falls. The two men laugh. Their work-out is just beginning.

Then: A time to be bold. A time to break rules. A time to throw caution to the wind, to quote Hendrix and Cobain and Morrison and Smith. A time to eschew the urges of my parents and my friends and all of those who seemed to want to force artificial restraints on themselves. We were all kids once, and we all ran into flocks of pigeons at the park. Wildly running at at a breakneck pace, hearts pounding as we did, trusting that the birds would move but still feeling those pangs of doubt. I did not stop running for a long time. I pushed past the pigeons and ran through crowds of people, through construction sites and sporting events, through weddings and wakes, through parties and get-togethers, through work and life. And then I hit something.

Prison: Not like you’d think. Awake at 5 every day as they counted the inmates. Then back to bed until 9. Woke for breakfast, exercise, hygiene and then recreation. At 11 a.m. each day we would gather in the media room and watch Bob Barker emerge from those sliding doors, skinny microphone in hand, grin on his face. And the people would yell and scream and stumble down the studio stairs, ready to guess the price of a credenza. Ready to win that credenza.

What I did: It doesn’t matter. Needles in my arm, pussy on the brain, dollar signs in my eyes — those times fade. I carried a small box out of prison, wearing the clothes I wore in years before, walking past the razor-wire and men with guns. Running my tongue over my back teeth, I realized that despite looking forward to so many things, what I really wanted most was to just brush my teeth. To use a toothbrush with a handle. And the air smelled so different the second I stepped over that grating and was outside the walls, staring at a girl who’s gone now, staring at the sky, staring at the future.

Now: A time to define things. The same things. Some things have many definitions. Some change over time. Like Bob Barker. Try to connect the man to his traits. Read his name on the back of a shank-free toothbrush, watch him stand beside a big wheel and a navy man, listen to the sound of his bare foot connect solidly with Chuck Norris’ chest. How do you define a man like that? How do you define a man at all?

Every morning: Wake up at 5 in cold-sweats, then breathe a sigh of relief. Sleep until 9. Wake quickly for breakfast, exercise, hygiene and then recreation. Wander downstairs before all of that and open the front door. Stare not so much at the outside world, but at the door itself. Open it. Close it. Look at these worlds: inside and outside, and I’m part of both of them. There’s a stirring upstairs: a girl in the shower. I smile as I think about that and so many other things: the bacon on the stove, the song on the radio, the cool breeze sniffing its way through the open door, that sound that homeless man’s neck made when I brought my boot down on the back of his head, and Bob Barker’s place in history. We’re so many things in this world. If we can’t define him, then what chance do the rest of us have?