Not many people know this, but I really have wanted to be Santa Claus for as long as I can remember. When I say this, I mean that I actually wanted to *be* Santa – as in, when I was younger, I would picture myself becoming a 400 pound man that’s always cheerful and giving gifts all of the time. I envisioned myself with a white beard and long white hair (and as such I was thrilled to see my Dad’s hair coming in white and not gray – I think white hair is more attractive that gray hair). You know, the whole routine. What satisfaction it would bring me if I was the jolly fat guy that always wore red and ate cookies and drank milk. Fantastic!

Well the dream still lives, as I was explaining to Shannon. (It’s the reason The Santa Clause is one of my favorite movies!) I still wish that I was Santa. Although, now I realize that it is probably not so healthy to be 400 pounds, and that, at that weight, I’d be lucky to have a full head of hair, let alone a foot-long beard. But, alas, I still envision myself being the joyful sap that loves to spread the Christmas cheer, that loves to be ever-happy. It would be an honor to live in the footsteps of a guy that makes people so durn happy. And then I began thinking to myself. “Self… where did this desire come from? Self… why did you (okay, okay… do you) want to be this guy so badly?” And all the questions lead me to the same answer – Christmas in my house and in my family has always been such a pleasurable and immensely enjoyable time. Santa is my parents. My parents are Santa. One encapsulates the other. When I want to be the man that is Santa (I realize as I lay snuggled in my bed here elated and drunk on Christmas Eve of 2004) I want to live in the image of my parents. My mom and dad have done such a fantastic job of stoking my imagination and desire to please, that it was only natural that I would want to BE the man (BOP!) with all (BOP!) the toys (BOP!). This desire to give and want nothing in return rises from the everyday actions I witness from both my parents. And from this rearing, this desire to be Santa, to be the giving man, grew increasingly strong.

Ever since I was about 7 years old, I would dress as Santa for the family on Christmas Eve. Yes, I did say seven! The first year we did not have a fireplace, and since we moved on my fifth birthday into this new house (and got a fireplace shortly after the second Christmas), we deduce it was around age 7. (I was surprised I was this young. I had assumed I was about 9 or 10). From this age and for about 9 years, the tradition was that, on Christmas Eve and before hanging our stockings and reading “”Twas the Night Before Christmas,” Santa (cough, me, cough) would hand out all of the gifts that we bought for each other (and our parents). Now, back in this day, these gifts were usually physically trite, but the thoughts behind them were touching. We used to wrap up our old toys and pass them down the line, or we would wrap up dead batteries, as was the old favorite gift, and give them to young ones that simply would enjoy the act of unwrapping a gift, and who, which was usually the case, would enjoy playing with the wrapping paper more than the “toy.” It was great fun!

My gifts were always pretty good to my brothers and sisters. And, I’m not boasting (Okay, maybe I am just a little bit); I just ended up with more money than they did because almost every year I would win the Mapes 5 & 10 coloring contests. I would always get cutesy with these contests, which consisted of coloring in a line drawing of a winter or Christmas scene. I’d take creative license, and I would add unique touches to it. I remember one time, the drawing was an image of Santa checking his list. I pasted a photograph of my mom in the background, drew a frame around the photograph and added some accessories (like a red and white striped hat). I labeled this faux “painting” with a plaque reading: “Mrs. Claus.” Every year, I remember anticipating the call from the Mapes store, saying that I had won again. I do not remember being disappointed ever – but I could have blocked that loser-year out of my memories. ;-x
I would have a sack (cough, trash bag, cough) full of our gifts to each other, and would pull them out one at a time, each time calling out the name on the present. They would have to come up and sit on my lap – the whole spiel. Then Santa would leave, and Brian would miraculously show up.

I can remember the first time we did this. Sara was our ringleader back in the day, and I guess she was about 10. This was her delightful scheme – she was the costume designer and producer of the whole event.

On a quick aside, Sara always was the leader. She had the power to brainwash us with wit and device. Just take a look at a song she made up to the tune of We Three Kings, and would have us all bellowing, shortly after our fireplace was put in and our kitchen was completely remodeled… “We 10 kids of JoAnn and Pat. Just destroyed the fii-iiii-rrre-place. Now, we’re moving to the kii-i-tchen, following our tall leader. [Sara – tall?! She was good… or we hadn’t peaked. Take your pick] Ohhhh Ohhhhh! We’re not stupid, no indeed. We just like to follow the lead….” Like little drones, we followed her every word.

Well, she had the whole event planned, with elves and the whole bit, and me, at seven, so eager to become The Big Guy. I was still all gung-ho about Santa and still believed whole heartedly in him and his magic.

Okay, sorry, another short tangent here on how I actually stopped believing in Santa (I lie – I still believe, but keep it on the DL). I didn’t stop believing until dang-well near 5th grade if I remember correctly – very late indeed.

My parents were always such clever folk (especially my pops) that brought much joy and imagination to our house around Christmas time. Again, as I reminisce, this only heightened my love affair with the season. The creativity and magical atmosphere was so amazing and so real to me. For example, at Easter, my parents left chocolate chunks on the carpet and would tell us that the Easter Bunny left droppings. Or another year, a corn-cob pipe was left on Christmas day next to the annual letter Santa wrote to the kids (he had horrible handwriting). Another year, Santa’s coat got snagged on the fireplace as he was going back up the chimney, and must have been in a rush because he forgot to turn around and get the coat. We still have the coat, which had a glittery (very Mom-ish) “S” on the front pouch. Mrs. Claus must have made him another coat, because we have had it for over 10 years. These would not always be the most elaborate decorations when you look back on them today, but by-george they would make us so damn excited. I mean, seriously, imagine being an 6 year old and seeing Santa’s pipe sitting on your living room end-table. You go nuts. I don’t know how many mouths that pipe has been in since, but I can tell you this – everyone of us wanted to taste the pipe that Santa smoked.
Another fun memory originates from the time before we had a fireplace. We didn’t know how Santa always got into our house, so my parents laid out Baby Talcum Powder on the front throw-rug before the front door. When we awoke, of course we found footprints going through the powder and into the living room. SANNNTTA!! He came through the door! This tradition, oddly enough, still occurred after we had the fireplace, and footprints still appeared near the door. Go figure.

These sort of surreal elaborations solidified my experiences of Christmas. It was a time of pure happiness, most of the time concocted by my parents and the people in my world. And I loved every minute of it. Hmmm, I see I went on a tangent to the original tangent – so, shoot me. What I wanted to tell you about was the story of the Elf Shoes and how they came back to bite me in the butt. As the story goes, my dad came home from work one night, later than usual. If I recall correctly, it was several nights before Christmas – and possibly even Christmas Eve. Well, he pulls up in the driveway, and he sees a Elf peeking into my and Judy’s room. (We were probably 4 and 3 years old, and yes, we shared a coed room). This was in the Broomall house, and we had a slightly sloped roof right outside of our room. He calls up to the little man in his Big Boy voice, “Hey you! What are you doing!” And the elf turns and sees my dad; his eyes widened. Of course there was snow on the ground, as there always is in any Christmas story. The elf skidded down the sloped roof and began a feeble attempt at escaping unscathed. My pops, being the athletic wonder (and talented singer) that he was – and of which we are constantly reminded, chased the Elf around the front yard until he was able to tackle him. BAM! He nailed him to the ground. With a bit of bickering between the two, my dad was finally able to work out a deal where the Elf, who was innocently checking on my sister and me (and the other kids), was to be let go in exchange for his Elf shoes. The deal was made, and a family tradition was started.

Now, any time my dad would tell the story, and he always would, he would always bring out this pair of rubber Elf shoes. And we absolutely loved it (and of course, fell for it). The shoes were about a size 12 or 13, men’s. Any elf that wore those shoes must have satisfied quite the oxymoron – for sure, he was a gigantic elf. But we, of course, did not see it that way. Our dad was the hero. He captured an Elf! One of Santa’s elves! And he managed to make a deal for a pair of Elf Shoes! As you could imagine, we would constantly walk around the house wearing the Elf shoes. We would bicker over who got to wear them, and who got to boast to their friends about them. And, as my own traumatic story goes, we would bring them in for Show and Tell at school. This is a fine practice when you are young, and your classmates buy into your story and can recount that magical night with you. But imagine retelling the tale as a 5th grader, where you, yourself, was grasping onto the stories by mere threads – hoping not to lose your grip. It was as if I did not want to disbelieve. I wanted to be engulfed into the magic of Christmas as long as possible. I loved that feeling. And I have always been stubborn. Nothing changed this particular year. I remember rehashing my dad’s amazing night to my fifth grade chums, and hearing nothing but snickers from my classmates. But did that phase me? Ha! Not one bit. My grip was just as strong as before on the threads that held together this magical world. I wouldn’t let go. I guess I was a late bloomer – but who knows, for the snickers did nothing to deter my imagination. The stories and the traditions were too deeply rooted by mom and pop. Simple mocking would not deter the beliefs.

It would take my parents informing me later that year, during Easter time and at a McDonald’s, that, in fact, there was no Santa Claus nor Easter Buddy (nor Toothfairy). The called me away from all of my siblings to inform me, a night or two before Easter, that such mystical and wonderful beings did not exist. I remember just thinking to myself… “Wow. This stinks.” But they did inform me that I would now be able to help them out, and become Santa and become the Easter Bunny; to wrap gifts and hide eggs. I guess it was an okay tradeoff, but I would still die to be that young again. Well, anyway, that’s how I lost the faith in 5th grade. That was some short tangent, huh? :-xSo this was back in the day, when everything was super-merry and super-magical, and when Santa still roamed the world in one magical night. And there I was, dressing up for the younger brothers and sisters, as that man. Well, the Santa costume back in the beginning was one of my sister’s maroon bathrobes. Simple but beautiful. Sara would smear lipstick on my cheeks for that rosy, fresh from the North Pole cheek-color, but I had no beard nor any pillows stuffed into my robe to make me fat. I did, however, and as if to make everything right, put white baby powder in my hair to make it white (well, very light gray-brown). That was the costume, and yet it was still effective enough to make my younger siblings go nuts. Sara and Monica would dress in green, and if I remember correctly, long stockings. Monica may have even brought back her patented “long-hair,” which consisted of pajama pants on her head, made into a braid of some sort. They were the elves, my elves. This was the beginning of something beautiful.

The next year, or two years later, I wanted to be more authentic – as it is customary for me to always want to achieve perfection in anything I do (even if it is an unachievable goal). I cut out a fake beard on the used, dot-matrix printer paper that Aunt Barb always brought over from her work – the one that was shaded in alternating white and green tones, usually with lines of garbled print appearing randomly. I covered the paper in glue and then scrambled for cotton balls to secure to it. I also added cotton balls to the tip of the same maroon hooded robe. I was looking fly. The beard was stiff and did not move when I talked, but it was fantastic. And it was so obviously fake, but a gluey-cotton-ball beard is better than no beard at all, right? I loved dressing as Santa, but as my brothers and sisters got older and wiser, it was harder to convince them of my authenticity (well it really wasn’t, as they were so young, but I still wanted to improve due to my own obsessions). I was always focused on improving…

I remember when I was about 11 or 12, the *only* thing I wanted for Christmas was a Santa Claus suit. And my parents (ahem… Santa) obliged. A few days before Christmas, my mom called me to her bedroom and said that they wanted to give me one of my gifts early, and then she pulled out the Santa Claus suit in a foot by foot plastic pouch. I was soooo excited! Looking back, the suit, no offense to my parents, was not the best suit in the world, but boy did it fulfill its purpose for a good number of years. The suit included a Santa hat, which actually and surprisingly fit (I have a huge head, but come on, don’t pretend you didn’t know that); it also had a felt-ish pullover top and elastic pants. It also had a cheap plastic belt and imitation boot-shafts (not full boots, just extenders to make your shoes look like boots). These ripped so easily. Lastly, the suit included a more realistic beard, which I was soooo excited about. The beard was basically stretched cotton on an elastic band. The band went around your head and hung naturally. It moved when I bellowed! You don’t know how excited I was. This suit was great, and I really loved it.

God, it felt great! To be able to slip into character, waiting outside by our enormous van (dubbed “The Fish Tank” by my friend Dave Dibello ages ago), watching my breath freeze when it came into contact with the bitter night. But cold could not stop Santa. (Geez, he’s Santa for cripe’s sake!) I remember vividly, for several years, waiting out in the cold night in my Santa suit, looking inside to see if my elves gave me the cue to come in the front door (the chimney had a fire lit, silly). The best part of it was the older children and my parents making up excuses about where Brian was while Santa came. I’ve been everywhere – at a friend’s house, asleep out in the van by mistake, at work (when I was a little bit older). None of them were very creative, but because they were somewhat believable, they worked (the degree to which it worked was inversely proportional to the age of the youngest child – obviously). This suit lasted for roughly 4 years, when I was turning 15 and getting antsy about the suit not being believable enough.
The beard started to stink as it would always go *into* your mouth and was impossible to clean. It didn’t help that I used it more than one night of the year – I used it in school plays and such for projects at Saint Denis; and as Christmas neared, I would usually, which no one knows about, put it on when I was 12 and 13 and stand at my bedroom window waving to cars that drove by. I tried to be as robotic as possible, for some reason. I think it stemmed from the Drexel Hill house that my dad used to always take us to. They were elaborately decorated, and had lots of robotic Christmas figures, one of which was a Santa Claus on the rooftop that waved. Anyway, I really loved seeing people slow down and point their kids in my direction (On more than one occasion, I also wore the costume, sans beard, hat, belt and boots, to bed because it was so warm – shhh!). So you see, my suit got worn out, and, well… It was time for another upgrade.

My Aunt Trisha had an amazing and probably expensive Santa Claus outfit that was used for the Flounders Kids’ Christmas Party every year (where an Uncle or older cousin would dress up for us and distribute gifts from godparents and, usually, a gift from our parents… which was one from the stock pile they had hidden from us. We would rent out a building that was attached to Uncle Tom’s Church (the Church was off limits, but we always found ways to sneak into it). All of the cousins would run wild throughout the building. Santa would come after we did our Christmas crafts, played games, and settled down into the room with the piano — but not until we sang several Christmas carols. These parties were the best! It’s a tradition that I hope will pick back up as more younger cousins are being born into the family).

I remember being nervous asking Aunt Trisha if I could borrow the suit because I kept thinking that it was so expensive and that she would never let me borrow it for fear that I’d ruin it. What was I thinking?! Aunt Trish is one of the nicest ladies in the world! She let me borrow it in a heartbeat. Instead of taking it in a 1 foot by 1 foot plastic pouch like my first Santa Outfit, this suit had to be stored in a trash bag. It was *that* heavy, and it was *that* good! It was a thick felt-ish suit. The beard was thick and much more realistic. It had a top to it that would cover your hair as well. The hat was awesome. It was a great suit, and it worked wonders for the two or three years that I wore it. For it after those years, that the tradition wavered and ultimately died. Chris, our youngest, was 6 when I was 16. And Mickey and Billy, the two above him, were 9 and 10. They were known as Frick and Frack, and were wild kids. (I guess when one kid hits the other on the head with an axe, they get that label, huh?).

[Psss. Another aside…] My parents, when they redid the basement many years ago, built in a “Christmas Room.” It was a room with lots of shelves that would hold all of the Christmas gifts during the shopping season. It was under strict lock and key… okay, forgive me for another tangent-inside-a-tangent. I love to be surprised. I love it, but I am impatient. So it’s hard to surprise me. Yes, this room was under lock and key, but I did know where the key was. I had restrained myself for years from peeking. But when I was 15, I wanted a color printer so badly that I would have done anything to find out if I was getting it. It was the only thing that I wanted! So, when no one was home, I took the key out of it’s “hiding spot” (which was with every other key the family had in the Medicine Cabinet) and unlocked the door to the Christmas Room. Boy was I disappointed. Not only was there a new color printer, but there was a whole new computer system in there. I RUINED what would have been the biggest surprise. Again, I haven’t told anyone this, because I was so ashamed. Christmas morning, I unwrapped my gifts, and looked in the “traditional” family gift section, and there was nothing. Maybe they were holding it for someone else and it wasn’t actually ours? Nope. One of the gifts I received was a computer cable. And as I looked at it, my dad tossed me the keys to the basement and said, “Merry Christmas!” I went down, and, knowing what was already waiting for me, tried to act very surprised. I was so excited, don’t get me wrong, but nothing beats that initial surprise… and I had ruined that one. That was the last time I blatantly peeked into the Christmas room. I like the “Holy Smokes! By Golly!” surprise feeling too much to ever do it again. Surprises are the best, and I missed out on this one…

I am too verbose; back to the story at hand. Frick and Frack didn’t know why the room was locked, or for that matter, why it was only locked around this time of the year. But a locked door to a kid is a screaming siren begging for attention. There was a secret entrance inside the Christmas room that Frick and Frack were very quick to pick up on. If you climbed under the stairway to the kitchen, there was a way to get into the Christmas room. Anthony and I knew of this passageway, but only because we, Judy, and Moira Zabel had our Poetry club under those steps (Again, that’s another story). To help my mom out, we hammered horizontal boards across the opening – and we proceeded to stop paying attention to it. Alas, a week before Christmas, we discovered that the boards had been kicked in, literally. They found their way into the Christmas room, and, as such, both discovered the true lie about Big Red. The point of this whole story? There was only one remaining believer in the house after I was 17. And that made me sad. Inside, I was torn. I was really hurt, because it felt like the night was a little less Magical. I know now, the nights simply shifted focus to being with family (which I LOVE now), but I was still all about being Santa then. It wasn’t as fun anymore, and thus I retired my suit. Anthony took over for a year, and then the tradition kind of stopped all together.

And this made me sad, I was talking to Judy while we were buying our gifts for the family about how much I missed “being” Santa Claus and about how I still wished we had little kids in the house. We agreed that it was weird to not have young ones all over the place, but we both loved how many younger cousins were being born into the family. And we both are (ridiculously) excited for the day that we have our own kids and when our siblings have their own kids. Those days will surely be around the corner sooner than we know it. I talked about how I was considering dressing as Santa and doing some Mom-and-Dad-like stunts. In particular, I mentioned getting dressed up again and appearing in the window of my two young (and close) cousins – ages 9 and 5 (ish). Kind of like the Elf my dad caught, but just enough to deliberately be caught by them, just to stoke their imaginations. Alas, the idea came as quickly as it went as I got consumed in work, Christmas parties, and shopping. All of these are important parts of the season (well I could do without the work, but I love parties and I love buying gifts that are just right).

And then Christmas morning came, 2004. (Obviously I wrote this on more than one night). I unwrapped all of my gifts, which were fantastic. (Mom and dad never fail). And then I saw a big box sitting next to the radiator in my corner near the fireplace (we have had the same assigned pile location for years). For some odd reason, I didn’t see the box until I was done wrapping all of the other gifts. But I am glad I saved it for last. I unwrap the box to see a drawing of Santa on it. It was a very nice box, but I was clueless about what it was. So I open it up, and, lo and behold, it’s one of those expensive, ornate Santa costumes!! I was so excited! Honestly, I had no clue about the gift, and I didn’t even ask for it. But here it was, and I was thrilled. I immediately put the suit on. It’s thick furry material, with a great belt and boot-extenders with fur on the top of them. The hat fits (even over the white wig and my large head!), and by george, they even include Dad-eyebrows (these are the Andy-Rooney-type eyebrows – cough, Pat Flounders, cough – that extend way past your facial frame). I was really touched and honored at the same time. And I really cannot wait to exploit the imaginations of my cousins next year.

While I did suffer from a 5 year lull in being the big guy, that doesn’t mean I am any less spirited. I still am obsessed with Christmas (as work people can attest to, or as Dr. Sprandio said, “Christmas music in July, Brian? Cut us a break!”), and I still love to make people happy by exceeding their expectations and making them a little more engulfed in the world I strive to paint. (I am just beginning to see that this gets easier as I get older, and for that I am remarkably excited). I think part of what I love so much is bringing out people’s inner child, and at Christmas, that is so easy to do. This fascination with Christmas and love and good feelings of comfort and joy all root from my earliest of childhood memories, from those family traditions that I will treasure for the rest of my life, that I will emulate in my own family when that time comes. Christmas is a time to let imaginations explode. I am blessed to be graced with such a wonderful family, and, especially, parents that make everyday, not just holidays, feel so magical and wonderful.

My childhood dreams of being Santa Claus are just one of my many many many memories of Christmas. To be honest, I could write a 1200 page book on this topic alone. And I love the fact that my mom and dad have started to make it easier for us to remember all of these happenings. In 1998, they started a new tradition of “Christmas boxes.” Each of us has our own box, and every Christmas, my parents add new items to the box (that we unwrap Christmas Eve). These can be photos, ornaments, other little Christmas trinkets; The Christmas Box will eventually be ours to take into our own homes when we get married so we have a leg up on decorations (and to remember all of the great years). Each year, several pages are also added to a book in each of our boxes that describes what happened for the past year and explains each of the items we were given that year (of course, each has its own meaning). They also include the typical sparkly cards that have become mom’s trademark. Mom and dad try so hard to make our Christmases as special as possible, and, even as we get older and traditions morph, they always succeed with flying colors. And for that, I am without words, in deep admiration.

“For all these things and more, that’s what Christmas means to me my love.”

So I never told anyone from my family this story, and I don’t know why. It happened at the end of a semester. I was probably just worryign too much about getting the hell out of there to remember to tell anyone not with whom I had immediate contact with on campus. I think that it does say a lot about me, the guy I always wish I can be. I would do anything for anyone; I’d give my life to save another. You know those dumb questionnaires? The ones that ask you questions that are supposed to lend insight into your personality? Like, where do you see yourself getting married? (I’ve always wanted to be married on the beach) How about the question, “If you could choose, how would you wish to die?” People usually answer, “Painlessly in my sleep”. My answer has always been “Saving someone else’s life.”

I don’t know what this says about me. Do I not treasure my life, to the point that I would almost want to give it up for someone else? Does it mean that I am selfish and want to be honored in death? What does it mean? Could it be that I have just been brought up that way? That, I cannot answer. What I can say though, is that THAT is me. And THAT is the theme of this story.

So it was sophomore year at Penn. I was in a class called Persuasion and Communication. Our assignment was to create a campaign for something, anything. It was supposed to be a persuasive argument for or against our statement.

*Someone did theirs trying to convince the world that Milk was bad for you*

I decided to do a campaign on Ecstasy Use Amongst Teenagers. I had Annie’s and Billy’s friends fill out questionnaires at the St. Denis Fun Fair, as I was targeting high schoolers and pre-teenagers (eighth grade) who I felt would be an easier-to-reach target. I gave them Snickers in return for their answers. I used this to design a campaign telling them the negative side effects of taking Ecstasy. I came up with two television commercials, and wrote a 52 page paper about my research and the questionnaire results. The other part of the project consisted of an oral report telling the professor and class about your campaign. (Just a side note, an exact duplicate of my advertisement appeared a year after I suggested it to the class). It was a huge final project, worth something like 70% of our grade. So, obviously I was nervous about the paper, but even more nervous about the Oral Report. Not because I am not good at speaking in front of people (I’m pretty descent), but because of the massive amount of information that I would be covering. Sorry, that was the back-story.

So the day of the Oral Report, I leave my house 15 minutes earlier than I would normally leave, simply because I was nervous and didn’t want to be a minute late for this thing. I lived on 42nd and Spruce Streets, in Philadelphia at the time. As I rounded the corner of 42nd, I hear a commotion, and I see that cars are stopped and the passengers are looking toward me. Because there were huge shrubs on the border of the property at the corner of 42nd and Spruce, I couldn’t see what they were all staring at. Confused, I watched as they stood still at the green light. I added hustle to my step and rounded the corner.

I would have never expected what I saw next (or even how I reacted). A 6′ 4″ bigass black man was repeatedly pounding his black (for description’s sake) girlfriend’s head into the brick sidewalk. She had blood pouring down her face, and was crying really loudly. Rather, she was making loud noises – they weren’t exactly cries. They weren’t exactly words. She seemed less than conscious. It looked like she was covered completely in blood. I didn’t skip a beat. I dropped my presentation and ran to the guy, took him by the biceps (he had freaking rocks for arms), and somehow managed to tear the guy off the girl. The minute I touched this guy’s arms, which seriously felt more solid and larger than granite, I feared for my life. What was I doing tearing a guy with the physical size and muscle of an NFL linebacker off of this girl? No. No. That’s not it – HOW in the HELL was I able to do this? The guy was a beast.

“Yo! YO! Dude! Think, man. What the HELL are you doing?” I shouted in his face louder than I have ever shouted before. He tried to force his way back to the girl by knocking me to the right. Before he could do that, I grabbed him with a bear hug, *just* barely able to link my arms around the girth of his chest, and wasn’t about to let go.

No one was getting out of their cars. What the hell is wrong with people?

I stood there, with my arms wrapped around him, my fingers interlocked to prevent him from breaking free and stared him down, eye to eye. Yeah, I had to look up, but I’m sure he saw the red in my eyes. I was talking in a calm but firm voice, literally centimeters from his face. I was staring slightly up, into his eyes and would not look away. He was fuming. “Calm down, man. Calm down. You don’t want to make matters worse.” No one was getting out of their cars; I was stuck there with this guy by myself. What the hell is wrong with people? This could have been a mirror image of the Kitty Genovese tragedy every Psychology 101 students learns about, where there were dozens of witnesses that watched Kitty’s murder but assumed others would deal with the problem. But then, almost in the nick of time, “I’m calling the cops,” came a voice from an apartment above. This guy was watching the whole time, or at least I felt his eyes watching the whole time. The agressor let his muscles go a little less taught. But he wasn’t done. He tried once more to get at the girl, and was able to break free from my grasp and knock me out of balance (which, believe me, is not *that* hard to do — at least on any day when I don’t have these superpowers). I regained balance quickly, and luckily, my temporary 300 pound roommate was just walking up the street.

“RON! RON! HELP ME!” Ron was in the Israeli Army or something of that sort. He was living on the couch on the first floor of our house for the semester. I really don’t know who this guy was; he claimed he knew one of us. But no one in the house claimed ownership of him. But we let him live with us anyway, and he was a godsend this day. Just in the nick of time, when the agressor was somewhat back in control, my angel appears. But Ron had just been to the dentist, and had completely been under anesthetics. He didn’t know what was going on; I could tell from his face. So I placed him between the girl and the guy and asked him to hold his ground. “Ron, just don’t let him past you” He did a great job as a barrier. I tried to comfort the girl and told her that the cops were on the way, with an ambulance. She really didn’t seem to know what was going on. I told her to stay still, to lay on the sidewalk and not move (if TV has taught me anything, ER showed me not to move people when they are hurt). She was in obvious pain, and I felt so badly for her (while fearing the man behind my wall at the same time). I watched her squirm in a pool of her own blood – she had lost a bunch of it. She seemed to be regaining some sort of awareness, but just then Ron called to me; the guy took off, running into West Philly. I told him to try and watch where he went because the cops were on their way. He watched.

During that split second I talked to Ron, the girl got to her feet and started wandering away. I followed her and tried to comfort her by giving my hand and offering a place to sit (the curb). I told her that the cops were on their way, and that she would be able to get a ride to the hospital. She stared at me, and I thought she was giving a blank “I was just beaten to a pulp” look, but then she opened her mouth. She screamed at me. I didn’t get it. She was trying to yell something. I couldn’t make out a word. Ron watched the general direction that her boyfriend (assumed) went, and then he came to help me out. Both of themwere wearing bright yellow shirts, as if they were in a group or tour or something. She opened her mouth again, and BLURG… blood came pouring from her mouth (right onto my dress pants – I had a oral project, mind you) .

As I tried to figure out for what she was yelling at me, she continued to walk into Philly and I followed, trying to settle her down. It turns out she didn’t want her boyfriend to get into trouble with the cops and she was mad at me. Yeah – that same boyfriend who was beating her head against a sidewalk. I didn’t understand that. I assumed it was some sort of state of shock and pleaded with her to stay where she was… for her own safety. “What happens if your boyfriend tries this again? Is it worth your life to not get him in trouble?” She complained even more, and tried to get away from us. Luckily, the cops came at that moment. I flagged them down, because we were a block from where the fight had happened. As they came up, I glanced at my watch and noticed that I was 16 minutes late for my damn presentation, and my nerves were shot, my pants bloody, and – oh shit… where were my visuals for the presentation? Then I turned to the cops, who Ron was talking to and we pointed to the direction where the guy took off no more than 5 minutes ago. We told him what he was wearing (besides the girls blood), and that car took off. The second and third cop cars pulled up to us, and I told them I was in a rush, and that Ron would tell them what happened. They told me they could take care of everything (thankfully so I didn’t *completely* fail). In haste, I did not leave my contact information, but Ron was there and he knew where I lived (obviously).

I ran back to get my project — it was covered in dirt and small amounts of blood — and ran like hell to the auditorium. I left the girl and the situation in the hands of Ron, the cops, and the ambulance I saw speeding down Spruce as I ran 10 blocks to give my presentation. I ran. (Now add sweat to the mix of dirt and blood, and you can imagine how I looked). I walked in 25 minutes late for the presentations, and my name had already been called. In fact, because we were doing the presentations in bunches of 6 per day, they were on the last presentation. My nerves were shot to hell, and I looked like ass. I sat in the back until the presentation was over. Oddly enough, the presentation was on spousal and relationship abuse. It talked about how people often times do not report abuse because they do not want to hurt their “loved” ones. I did not understand why people do that. Why, if you are not being treated the way you should be treated, you would stay with that person. Why, if your significant other did not show you love every day, you would stay with them. Why you would put up with physical or verbal abuse at all. It’s a very interesting psychological issue that can be seen everywhere. I sat through the presentation, which was (sadly) perfect for my situation. After the presentation, I raised my hand and addressed the class. I explained to them why I was late — the whole story — and how it relates to this girl’s campaign presentation. And how it boggled my mind what the girlfriend was saying to me. They looked as shocked as I was. It allowed me to make a case for my jitters and shit, as I was up next to speak (by default and because I was late).

Well, my presentation was awful. I couldn’t remember any of what I needed to say, and it was painfully awkward. Luckily I had a petty safe excuse, and the professor (who is normally a hard ass) got a heart and called me to make sure I was okay later that day. And, yes, I ended up with a B+ in the class, but that’s the least important thing about this story.

I never found out what happened with this girl, and I wish I could have found out more. Ron said that he just helped out the cops for another 10 minutes and then they took the girl to the hospital. Neither of us were ever contacted. I got too caught up with the end of the semester and almost being out of school that I didn’t even think to call the cops myself. Oh well. I pray that she is alright and no longer with this asshole. Wanna know something weird? I felt this girl could have easily been killed by this man. He was *that* big and *that* vicious. But this wasn’t the only time that I was faced with soem sort of injury or brutality and took the high road. I will have to share another story with you later.

I was sitting on the couch trying to fix a laptop, and the topic of homelessness popped into my head. I don’t know why; maybe it was because I haven’t written anything in a while, or maybe just because I had some funny stories I wanted to share with you…. “Ummm… Can’t it be both?” Sure it can, but let’s see if I can unite them all into a cohesive piece about homelessness. It might be trickier than expected (once you hear some of my stories you will understand).

I used to be the biggest supporter of panhandlers. Not all panhandlers, the ones that will actually do something entrepreneurial for their pay – wash windows (by which I mean smearing a dirty rag on your window), playing a musical instrument (by which I mean attempting a one man band with only one instrument, sometimes not too shabbily), etc. That got me thinking exclusively about Ireland. While I didn’t see many homeless people in Ireland, there were two that stand out. One tried to do the latter — except he had no instruments. So he stood there and crooned, belting out Irish versus. His head tilted to the skies, his eyes remained closed, and he put his all into the words he was singing. I thought this was really neat, so I threw a Euro into his hat. The other homeless man was neither of the two, and therefore, he got nothing. He was the “token drunk Irish man,” as we liked to call him. We joked (I guess kind of immaturely) that he was hired by Galway to play the Drunk Guy, because he was so stereotypical of what we’d expect (and see in America). He had the brown bagged liquor, the imaginary friends, everything down to the self-rants and the uncanny ability to stay in one spot for the whole day. Galway, a very touristy place, wanted to remind us of home while giving us some Irish flavour — hence the drunk guy’s Irish antics. I swear these were the only two drunk Irish men we saw the whole week we were there. My guess may be there exists more of a baseline in Ireland, as opposed to the extremes of America – that more people fall into middle or lower classes in Ireland, but escape homelessness. Either that or I just didn’t see the right parts of Ireland. Either *that* or I am just spoiled.

Anyway, as the story goes, the entrepreneurial homeless would earn their pay from me. It wasn’t always like that. I used to like to give to a homeless person before I would even, say, feed myself. And I would be mocked for this, particularly in freshman year at Penn. One event made me less willing to give. It happened during this freshman year, where the occasional homeless person (or mentally unstable resident of the nearby halfway house – now defunct), would harass you for some money. I guess I liked to reward their smartness for hanging out on a very wealthy campus (either that or I felt sorry for its not-so-generous denizens). Regardless, I would give freely. But I learned quickly. One man asked me for a dollar as I was walking down an alley to dinner with Keren, Frank, Alex, and some others. Well, sure, here ya go. I handed the dollar to him and he accepted it. But I didn’t get my hand back. Um this is kind of weird, I thought to myself. He pulled my arm toward him as he’s saying “Thank you kindly.” Okay, harmless, right? Nope, he didn’t stop there. He took my arm and pulled harder, yanking my body close to him. He then proceeded to lick the side of my face, from the jawline to above the sideburns. One quick lick. And that’s when I pulled away (why it wasn’t sooner, I don’t know – I guess I was curious as to what he was trying to do). Being an immature freshman, I then said “Yo man, I’m not a homo” and looked at him with a cocked head and disgruntled eyes. He does his best impersonation of the Wayans brothers, as he pulls up his pants fastened with a string, and says “It don’t matter… man” in very long, drawn out phrases. Definitely a stoner. Definitely probably had the munchies and thought I was a salt-lick. Yeah, so that kind of made me apprehensive about giving out change to panhandlers. From that point on, I got smart about it.

For example, I would not give out money, which would be used for alcohol or drugs. Instead, I adopted the idea of giving food. Several times, I brought the panhandlers into Wawa, which was one of their favorite places to panhandle, and bought them a cup of coffee or some food while I was doing my shopping. They always seemed to appreciate this more than money. Eventually, that same year, I saw that my cafeteria dollars were not being used as quickly as I should have been using them, and that there would be a lot of non-refundable dollars toward the end of the year. So, probably about 5 times, I used the meals for homeless men that would stick on the heat vents next to Stouffer cafeteria. I always had odd schedules that didn’t match up with my friends, so I would often just get lunch to go and eat in my room. Instead of doing this, I would ask one of the homeless guys if he wanted to get some food at the cafeteria.

“Are you hungry?”
“Of course, you idiot.”
“Come with me – all you can eat.”

“Uh… this is my friend…” I would tell the cafeteria worker as she eyed his raggedy clothes and unshaven self, “…from Cleveland.” Surprisingly, and as if she then understood, she let me “double-swipe” – once for me and once for my best friend from long ago that I never knew I had. We’d go in and grab lots of food – these guys eat like college students (except when they fill their trays, they usually eat every bit of it. College kids will throw out half the tray). This one guy I remember, a short black man named Jim, hadn’t been homeless for long. He and his wife both lost their jobs. A day before, he had seen me coming back from Wawa for my daily case of Pepsi, and he offered to help carry my bags. I declined, and he asked if there was anything I could give him.

“I only have soda?” which isn’t very nutritious, as I later found out from my dentist after getting my first 7 cavities (yeah, I said 7) from this nasty addiction following Sophomore year.

“If you don’t mind… My kids need something”, he replied gently and embarrassingly.

So I gave him 5 cans out of the 12 pack and thanked him for his offer to carry my bag. [This was back in the day when I was addicted to Pepsi, drinking a 12 pack every day or 2. This would be the addiction I speak of that gave me my first ever cavities – in one fell swoop.] So, I had known the guy briefly the day before, and figured, why not ask him to come to lunch with me. Well we got to talking and he told me about his family. He had 3 kids that he brought to the shelter as he went out looking for a job. His wife stayed with the kids for some part of the day, but was also trying to find a job. He could have been yanking my chain, but sometimes you just got to have faith in people. During the meal, I decided “All you can eat” should mean “All your homeless friend and his family could eat in a week.” I took out my books from my bookbag and filled it up with food from the cafeteria. As we were walking out of Stouffer, I hand the bag to him and tell him to be well. With that, I wished him luck on his Job Search. [If you are from my family and are reading this and saying “Brian didn’t lose his back pack! He gave it away.” Then, yeah, you figured me out. For all of you outsiders, I told my family I lost my backpack sometime during freshman year. I didn’t feel like explaining the story behind what *really* happened to the bag that I didn’t really need. I would only carry one notebook to class to take notes. Why would I need a bag. The most books I would have to carry was 3 or so at a time. No big deal. Jim could use it more than I could. He was carrying around his possessions in a paper bag from the local grocery store (while I actually usually prefer to travel with black trash bags, it’s hard to get a job carrying your stuff in one of those). But I’m getting off subject yet again. Back to the story.]

About a hundred different ideas popped into my head from that one afternoon I shared with Jim. I also thought of collecting the left-overs from the dining halls to distribute to homeless shelters in the area. I called around and talked to the Dining Services coordinator and found that they would not give me the food for health reasons. Upon persistence (and several emails later), he finally told me that they are working with another group that does something similar. This group, however, only collected non-perishable food stuffs. He went behind my back, but it appeased me. At least it was something. I called to group to confirm that they were working with Penn Dining, and they were. Oh well, I tried. Jim also gave me the idea of trying to start up a charity that would help homeless people find jobs. Something simple, like collecting old suits to give to homeless people to spruce themselves up for an interview. I had a catchy name for it, too – alas, I cannot remember it. This idea, however, got lost in the shuffle of Finals. I’m just now remembering the whole idea because I am writing about it. Maybe this will be a motivating factor that will kick me in the ass and make me work toward that goal.

Another thing Jim taught me was that not all homeless people are the alcoholic drug abusers they are stereotyped as. Each one usually has his own story, just as saddening as Jim’s. At or about this time, I was in a Filmmaking class. Our final was approaching, and this little afternoon with Jim gave me the idea for my Final video. I was going to juxtapose the hustle and bustle of the Holiday season in Philadelphia with the disheartening and depressing stories of some of the local homeless people. So I called up Anthony, and he graciously came into Philly and we went out and taped the shopping and the pure energy of the Christmas season in downtown Philly.

Rough Edit: Holiday Pains

A lot of this was just shot from his car, as I was extremely pressed for time and we had a mere week to do the final video (well, with all of my procrastinating, I had a mere week). Then, I set out to interview the homeless people on campus. I would give them money ($5.00 – I was kinda poor) and a Wawa sandwich for answering a few questions for me. The amazing thing is, the majority of them wouldn’t shut up once they got talking. This one guy who called himself Haram would have filled a 3 hour tape if I had one. I still resent that I took so long in deciding what I wanted to do for my project. The video ended up cutting out all of the interviews and just showed the frigidness of sleeping on heated grates; the humility of panhandling, and the overall depression of being homeless. The only audio came from a song I lent from my good friends The Beatles: “Yesterday,” juxtaposed with “Holly Jolly Christmas” by Burl Ives. You can see one of the rough edits of this film by clicking this link or the image to the right. Unfortunately, I never got a good copy of the final version saved on my computer. Damn me and being rushed. Jim, I hope you are doing well. You provided me with a different perspective on life. And for that, I thank you.

Okay, okay. This part really didn’t fit in anywhere. Since, for the most part, the story is about my generosity toward the homeless, this part will understandingly not fit. Because I had a rapport with said people, my friends often considered me one of them. Okay, I lie. I lie. It’s because I had started growing my hair out, grown facial hair, and, if you know me you know it’s true, I like to shop in thrift stores (exclusively). Well shut up! My friend Andrea drew this lovely picture on “Brian in 2015.” It’s me outside of my favorite store looking dapper. Anyway, for Halloween that year, I was a homeless man, a bum, if you will. I was one of the stereotypical homeless men, with the brown bottle, covered in dirt,, really bad teeth, extension chord holding up my rattered jeans (yeah I made up that word). You know, the works. It was one of my best costumes, at least in the environment that is Penn. I went around knocking up on my friends’ doors. I recall Lizette, the almost famous model, almost shitting herself.

Knock. Knock.

“Who’s there?”

“I see you looking out of the glass thing. Open up.”

No response.

She wasn’t budging. She would not open the door for me. Talk about looking authentic. Others were not as lucky to have one of those looking holes on the door (what the hell are they called anyway). Even fewer were lucky to not have locked their doors. I would walk right in, as I was accustomed to doing (right Jenny and Vanessa?). Let’s just say the costume was a big success.

The moral of this story: be nice to homeless people. It could be you. And I will end with Bob’s great lyrics (my favorite song of freshman year, and the song that my computer woke me up to every morning, now that I think about it):

Once upon a time you dressed so fine

You threw the bums a dime in your prime, didn’t you?

People’d call, say, “Beware doll, you’re bound to fall”

You thought they were all kiddin’ you

You used to laugh about

Everybody that was hangin’ out

Now you don’t talk so loud

Now you don’t seem so proud

About having to be scrounging for your next meal.

How does it feel

How does it feel

To be without a home

Like a complete unknown

Like a rolling stone?

God, thats good “s”.

I didn’t want this article from the Inquirer to disappear of the Internet. They were nice enough to give me a printed copy of it (on glossy paper thanks to “Aunt” Patty Smith). I just wanted to make sure I have an online record of it to.

Posted on Sun, Jul. 06, 2003

People | The power of one, via the Internet

His mentor and friend was ailing; his Web site drew thousands.

By Michael Vitez

When Brian Flounders was in eighth grade, he wrote an essay about the man he admired most – Mike Zabel, a close family friend who taught him how to play basketball and who became his traveling soccer coach.

Brian, 22, graduated in May from the University of Pennsylvania, where he majored in digital media design. He is the third of 10 children and lives in Havertown.

Last winter, he persuaded his parents to make the down payment on an old house in Wildwood Crest – and then worked out a deal in which he and all of his siblings pay the mortgage. He wrote out a 17-page document and got all 10 to sign it. Even the baby, 12-year-old Chris, chips in $50 a month.

Brian, who has long hair and a beard and often wears a bandana, has always been a family kind of guy, and Mike was always part of that family. For Brian’s senior project at Penn, he designed a Web site enabling the family to stay in touch.

On June 5, Mike, 45, father of six, soccer coach at Merion Mercy Academy in Merion Station, self-anointed “King of Fun,” suddenly fell gravely ill with pancreatitis.

The next day, he was moved to the intensive-care unit at the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania. Friends began to call the house: What can we do?

Brian wanted to help. On June 8, he decided to create a Web site: www.theflounders.com/zabel.

He stayed up all night working on it, which is nothing new for him. Earlier in the year, at Penn, he spent 46 hours straight working on a computer design project, sustained by only peanut-butter sandwiches.

Brian and his Web site became the clearinghouse for updates about Mike. Brian created a calendar on the site so friends could pick a day to bring dinner to Mike’s family in Ardmore.

Brian created a schedule so friends could sign up to sit with Mike in the hospital.

He wanted friends and family to be able to send Mike prayers and get-well wishes, so he modified the site so they could post comments. Over the next few days, hundreds of people posted remarks from across the country, as well as from England. More than half were from teenagers and children.

“You felt like you were connected,” said Pat Smith, Mike’s sister-in-law. “I never saw anything like it. It helped me a lot. It made me cry a lot. It was so overwhelming to see how much people cared.”

Brian made a few entries.

On June 9, he wrote: “Mike, Chrissy, Mike, Matt, Moira, Brigh, Shannon, and Bubba – I love you all – we are family. if you need anything at all, I’m around all day – til I decide I want to start working… that could take a while! Let me know, please. Even the smallest things, I’m here and have a thousand volunteers calling me to help with driving, cleaning, etc. Call me, honestly.”

Mike’s children also wrote. Brighid Zabel, 17, made this entry on June 16:

” ‘the sky is still the same unbelievable blue …’ always one of your favorite lines. it’s beautiful out today, dad. but the sun doesn’t shine the same without you here. you keep fighting because it gets harder each day…when i don’t hear the maxima speeding up the driveway with music BLASTING, when the american flag bandana lays folded in a drawer too long, when i don’t wake up to the smell of egg sandwiches being made for everyone, when i don’t have to leave a number where i’m sleeping over that night… you are so greatly missed, dad. keep fighting the good fight. whether we’re at your bedside, or laying in our own beds, our thoughts are with YOU, big guy.”

One night, the Zabels told Brian that the meals were awesome but that the kids would love some brownies. He put that on the site, and, the next morning, the family was deluged with brownies. The Zabels realized they’d better be careful what they tell Brian!

Sadly, Mike’s condition grew worse. On June 18, he died.

Brian put funeral plans on the Web site. He knew so many people would be at the service at St. Denis Church in Havertown, where the Flounder family first met the Zabels, that he arranged to have it broadcast on large video screens set up outside the church. More than 1,000 attended.

Mike’s widow, Christine, a physician, wanted to hold a potluck luncheon after the funeral, and she told Brian what she’d like people to bring. He created a sign-up sheet on the Web site to coordinate food for several hundred people.

Over 15 days, the site drew more than 900 postings and 20,000 hits.

“I’m tremendously grateful to Brian, but not overly surprised,” Christine said. “The whole family would do anything for anybody. That’s the way Brian was raised.”

Brian never expected his site to have the impact it did. At the funeral, people came up to him, calling him “Mr. Flounders” and thanking him.

“Brian is my hero,” said Pat Smith.

Brian’s mother, Jo Ann Flounders, is an oncology nurse practitioner. Every day, she deals with people at the end of life. “I have never seen anything like this,” she said of the Web site.

As for what her son accomplished, she said: “Shows you the power of one.”

Brian says it’s way too soon for him to think about expanding this idea, about helping other families. And he’s way too embarrassed to accept any praise. He’s still grieving over the loss of a man he loved.

Brian took his own little brother and the youngest Zabel child, Chris, down to Wildwood Crest for a few days last week to hit the water park and have some fun.

Brian said he’ll keep the site up for years so the Zabel children can always see how many people loved their dad.

It was weird to get a call from Mr. Vitez while I was at the shore with Bubba and my brother Chris. He called several times and left voicemail messages. Everytime I actually got a hold of him, and when he drove down for the interview, I snuck out on to the porch of the front house, out of Bubba’s hearing range. And I also thought it was weird that he never mentioned my dad in the article, since my dad and Mr. Z were best buds. Oh well.