The Blue Cheese Guy: Memories of a chance encounter reconciles grief with love.
Bill is looking intently at the family portrait taken after Bruce’s cancer diagnosis. He examines it often in the year we’ve been together. It starts with a natural curiosity about a past before him. This grows to questions about the woman he sees smiling from the photo, and finally a reconciliation with the man who was my husband for 24 years. He wrote beautifully about this journey in the blog post, “The Uncatchable Thief of Years.” But this time I can tell he is searching for a specific answer to a question plaguing him for weeks.
“I know him,” he says as I grab him from behind and look at the portrait over his shoulder.
“Lots of people think that, ” I answer. “Bruce has a face that seems familiar.” This is true. Grocery clerks, bar tenders and air conditioner repair men. All would ask, “don’t I know you?” Bill scoffs. He leans in closer, waiting for Bruce to reveal their hidden connection. “That’s it!” He turns around in my arms. There is a look of feigned nonchalance as if Bill knew this secret all along and just now chooses to share it with me.
“He is the Blue Cheese Guy…”
If You Don’t Ask, You Don’t Get.
Bruce’s favorite Kansas City restaurant is Jack Stack Bar-B-Que. If you ever visited us from out of town, it’s a good bet we took you to the 95th street location where you would be educated on the delicacies of burnt ends, crown ribs and cheesy corn bake. I do not like bar-b-que. Often, I slid into the bar booth (our preferred seating) with a bit of petulance and determination to eat no cooked meat. It is worse on this rainy winter afternoon. I am not hungry as we are here early. This is by design. Prime Rib often runs out and Bruce will not be denied. Our server is a young man who shrugs when I order the loaded baked potato. But he perks up when Bruce requests extra blue cheese on his salad. Maybe it’s the added finger gun motion he gives the waiter with a cheerful, “thanks buddy.”
Bruce loves food. I don’t understand this. He teases me often, “Rebecca you eat to live, I live to eat.” Right now he is in mold nirvana. The dressing surrounds his mouth. He looks like he has rabies.
“I’m going to buy this,” he tells me between fork fulls.
For some reason his pleasure in a salad dressing annoys me. “You can’t just buy their blue cheese.”
“Oh yeah, well I think they will sell it to me.” And with that, as I cringe, he calls over our server and asks him about purchasing it.
“No one ever asked about buying our salad dressing before.” I sit up straighter and cross my arms. Vindication is now on the menu. “Our General Manager is here. Let me ask him.” Even better I think. The top brass will tell Bruce no. We are going through a rough patch in our long marriage. I want him to be this enthusiastic about our business. He wishes I could be more optimistic. Enjoy life more. Now it has come down to a salad dressing.
Suddenly, an animated man is standing by our booth. “So, I hear someone over here loves our blue cheese!” The general manager actually appears delighted someone has recognized the superiority of Jack Stack Blue Cheese.
Damn. I stare at this man willing him to tell my husband good try buddy but it’s just not done. Bruce senses a kindred spirit, and is giving him the pitch.
Oh my God! Is this stranger’s head bobbing in agreement? How did they form an alliance so quickly against me? They wax poetic about cultured Penicillium. I sigh. The manager turns to me, raises one eyebrow and says, “He is right. This is the best blue cheese in town. I don’t know why more people don’t buy it.” I look at his face and for a moment our eyes meet. He smiles and says, “this guy has great taste.”
They agree on the price of a quart and the general manager walks away to instruct the server on packaging. Bruce leans on one arm, tilts his chin up and barely closes his eyes as a smile curls the ends of his lips. This is his, “If you don’t ask, you don’t get ” look. And I have to laugh in admiration. You win this round Bruce Slaton.
We are walking out with our quart of blue cheese. The General Manager calls out, “You guys enjoy!”
As he opens my car door, Bruce says, “now that guy knows customer service.”
That guy is now my husband.
Serendipity
“Bruce was wearing a Kangol hat.” Bill shares this as proof of our encounter years ago.
“Yes,” and I smile as I think of Bruce in the cap.
“He wore it backwards.”
“That’s right,” I answer. “He thought he looked like Samuel Jackson.” Bill gives me a confused head tilt. “They are both bald.” And with this memory, I laugh.
“He came in after that every few months to get more dressing. A server would say, “hey, that Blue Cheese Guy is here.” And I would make him a quart.” Bill pauses for a moment, “But then he stopped coming in.”
After Bruce got sick, we didn’t eat out as much. Over time, our lives revolved more around hospitals, doctor’s visits and keeping the business a float. We moved to Texas. Bill notices the cloud slowly covering my face.
“You were a nice looking couple. I bet I told the kitchen manager you are pretty” I don’t know if Bill says this because he truly remembers. Perhaps he is just being kind. It doesn’t matter. This man I adore, reminds me I was part of something special before him. And it’s ok to remember it.
Becoming un-stuck
Grief does weird things to your brain. You can’t watch a person you care for slowly die and not have it not effect you. I became stuck in a slow motion movie where I relived Bruce’s final moments over and over again. It became so ingrained in my mind, I couldn’t remember what he looked like before the cancer without seeing a photograph.
By the first anniversary of his death, it was worse. Maybe it was the stress of caregiving. Losing a business. The moves. The job that went nowhere. Ending up in a global pandemic. All I could think about were the ways we failed. Possibly I was just mad. People rarely speak of the angry side to grief.
A few weeks after we recognize the 12 months since Bruce passed away, I meet Bill. Ironic I think when he tells me of being the General Manager at Bruce’s favorite restaurant. And as we fall in love, something else happens. The movie in my mind shifts just like the Wizard of Oz. It goes from black & white to dazzling color. Opening my heart to Bill freed me to open my heart again to Bruce.
Moving Forward
Grief isn’t something you cure. I know this now. It never goes away but it can get better. I am better. In fact, Bill gets the best Bex. And this is largely due to Bruce. I grew up in my first marriage. Bruce gave me confidence to be an artist and an entrepreneur. The mistakes taught me what I would do differently. The joy reminds me of what is important. The threads of my love for Bruce are woven into my love for Bill and it creates a stronger realization of what I lost and an appreciation for what I found.
It is the 2nd anniversary of Bruce’s death. I have moved forward in the most wonderful ways. But I will never move on. Grief and new love may co-exists. It’s a wonderful lesson. There will always be a special place for the blue eyed man with a bright smile and forever tan. He wore Hawaiian shirts and shorts even when it snowed. He loved his family, especially his brothers. When he was sick, he smiled during treatments offering support to others through his Cancer Boy Updates.
I ran as he rode that beloved bike. We laughed, cried and made peace with our marriage. I was his Daisey Girl. He loved Blue Cheese from Jack Stack. I am grateful for these memories.
His final gift was wishing me happiness with someone else when he was gone. I like to believe when I married Bill he raised a Mai Tai with a toast, “this guy has great taste.”
