Death Or Glory*

* A couple of weeks after I got back from my east coast visit (which I shall detail here soon, but for a taste check out this if you haven’t already), I got a call from my dad early one evening, which was pretty strange. He usually calls me in the middle of the night, but since I’ve gone to third shift he’s been great at letting me get some sleep in before I head off to work. So when my wife nudged me awake and handed me the phone, I was less than thrilled to take a call.

“Rumble, it’s your father,” he said and I knew instantly something was wrong. “I’ve got some bad news. It’s Little Boo. He’s got cancer and he doesn’t have long. Maybe days.” I tried to fight through the sleep and confusion, but it felt like my brain was on a treadmill and I couldn’t get enough traction to move forward.

Little Boo is my oldest half-brother and a product of my father’s first marriage to a woman named Esther. For the vast majority of my upbringing, I never knew about the connection of Little Boo to my father. Then, sometime in my early teens, I started asking questions and things clicked. From then on, Little Boo and I were pretty tight, right up until a couple of years before I left for Indianapolis. After that, we never talked on the phone or never put pen to paper. I don’t know why. Sometimes in family situations like this, there are just too many obstacles to overcome. Esther was always an overprotective and controlling mother when it came to Little Boo. For years my family tried to get his last name changed to ours, but Esther would never complete the paperwork or meet anybody at the courthouse. And for years my grandmother wanted to get Little Boo professional help for a horrible stuttering problem, but Esther wanted none of it. She seemed content to let the guy soldier on with a lack of social skills and self confidence for his entire life. If there’s one person to blame for the divide, I’d have to place that burden on Esther.

And then there’s Little Boo’s choice of lifestyle over the years. Like my father and his father before, Little Boo inherited our family’s genetic knack for abusing alcohol. During the time that Little Boo and I were tight, both he and my father were drunk most of the time. Neither of them knew how to save money. Neither knew how to save for the future. The cash for the next round and carton of cigarettes was always the first priority for both of them, which often led to its own set of problems. Sometimes Little Boo would only show up when he needed something, and that would always make my father mad. My father was always upset that he never got a Father’s Day or Birthday card from Little Boo whenever those occasions rolled around. By the same token, I don’t believe my father really ever put any effort to supporting Little Boo during his formative years. When Esther and my father broke up, that severed all ties and obligations as far as my father was concerned. And as fucked up as my own immediate family was during those years, I dare say that I probably had more normal father and son moments with my dad than Little Boo did.

A few years ago I heard that Little Boo had contracted Lyme Disease because he had let a tick infestation go too long without getting proper treatment. He was always sick and having convulsions. But now I wonder how much of that was the cancer working its way into his system. As it was told to me, he was at work attempting to pick something up when he heard a pop and a snap somewhere in his side and back. When the x-rays were taken, they discovered he had cancer in his back and in both lungs, and they said it was very aggressive. Initially, they gave him just a handful of days. Then it was six to twelve months. Now that’s been moved up considerably. They pulled Esther aside the other day and told her he doesn’t have long. They will give him chemo to help slow the disease, but it’s not going to change the outcome any. Little Boo will pass on and there’s nothing any of us can do to stop it. The future, as they say, has already been written.

For the first few days after I got the call, I was pretty numb about the whole thing. I hadn’t talked to my half-brother in over twenty-plus years. I didn’t think jumping on the phone and having the both of us struggle through mutual apologies was appropriate. And I didn’t know how Esther’s side would view it. But I knew I had something to say, I just hadn’t figured out to say it. Then, over the last couple of days, a cousin and one of my sisters encouraged me to get off my pondering ass and just put the words out there. So last night, I latched onto a memory and fired up the computer. This is what I came up with. I tried to exorcise all blame and guilt out of the process. Tried not to mention the words “cancer” and “death”. After it was done and placed in the envelope, I thought it was the most heartfelt thing I’ve ever written. I only hope it reaches him in time and that he’s able to understand that I meant every word of it.

This one is for you, my brother.

——

Dear Little Boo

I’ve spent the last couple of days trying to come up with what I thought would be the proper words to say. Then I got an e-mail from cousin Betty and she reminded me that the words don’t have to be proper. They just have to be said. So I’m just going to write them down here without any spit or polish. So I apologize if the words get a little clunky at times.

I know that we were only really close for a few years during my mid to late teens. Who knows why things drift apart for friends and family after a certain age? I know I certainly don’t blame you for that. The responsibility to pick up a phone rested with me, too. I don’t know why I never did, especially since you are partly responsible for the man I am today, whether you know it or not.

You see, back then our primary way of communicating was our love for music. We bonded over great bands and artists, sometimes trading albums along the way. One of the greatest moments in my life was when I was with you up in your room on Cedar Court and you pulled out a copy of The Clash’s London Calling, with that great cover photo of Paul Simonon ready to smash his bass all over the stage. I took one look at that cover and just knew that was something I was going to love, even without listening to it. And I doubt I even would’ve heard of The Clash if it wasn’t for you. Back then, that kind of music was off my radar. It was too worldly; a bit too political. My world view then was of Amesbury, Massachusetts and nothing more. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to understand the messages more. I see the bigger picture now. And I’m horribly political these days and those politics and ideals are informed by the music I choose to listen to. I think I’ve owned a copy of London Calling in all of its incarnations–vinyl, cassette, and CD. It has always been on my iPod. It’s an album I can listen to over and over again and never get sick of (much like Elvis Costello’s My Aim Is True). And, with each play, I inevitably think of you and the day you introduced me to the songs of Joe Strummer and Mick Jones. I don’t see that changing anytime soon.

But it’s just not politics and world view. The music you introduced me back then informs me in my cultural choices, too. About five years ago, my wife and I started getting involved with the local roller derby scene here in Indianapolis. At first, the scene started off slow and it just exploded. But the one thing that was there from the start was the music. While the girls were out competing on the track, they had a local DJ playing music in the background. And it was all music I associated with you. The New York Dolls. The Clash. Elvis Costello. David Bowie. The Ramones. And on and on. I’d hear a tune and think of you. After the third year, the team lost its regular DJ and the person taking over got on the internet message boards and asked us what we wanted to hear. A lot of folks started talking about heavy metal or electronica. I got on and said, “Don’t forget all of us aging punk rockers.” Thankfully, they still play “Pump It Up” and “Trash” at the bouts. Otherwise I might have to rethink of how I spend my ticket money. I can handle most things, but crappy music is not one of them. Thanks to you, I know the difference between the good stuff and the bad these days.

So exactly what am I listening to these days? Oh, I still listen to the old school punk rock stuff, but I’ve also discovered the alternate country stuff. People like The Drive-By Truckers, Steve Earle, and Buddy Miller. Mostly southern working class guys just fighting the system paycheck to paycheck. Things that Joe Strummer and Graham Parker were writing about in the 1970s, only with a little more twang. It’s a little more subtle than smashing a bass on the stage, but the energy and anger are still there. And it’s definitely not stuff you’re going to hear on the radio. Which is fine. I like the fact that the good stuff is still found via word-of-mouth these days. That somewhere out there right now are two brothers having the same conversations we had and one of them is holding up an album and saying, “You’ve gotta hear this.” That makes me smile more than anything. Maybe we didn’t pick up the phone. Maybe we didn’t write. But music, man, is deeper than that. And good music lasts a hell of a lot longer than a piece of paper, I think.

I don’t know what to say other than that. I guess all I wanted to say is that I’m here thinking of you and all the things you taught me through the music we shared. If you’ve regretted not speaking with me for a great number of years, don’t. Because you’ve never been far from my thoughts as long as there’s been a stereo or an iPod within distance. I’m thankful for that. I really am.

With much love always,

RumbleSnake