Brett

I have suffered the loss of two dear friends this fall. Writing about what happened has been difficult yet therapeutic. Being young and of good health with no previous history of tragedy, I for one was completely floored when I was told they were dead. I think everyone was. There are so many angles I could take here in my writing.
I guess I will start at the beginning and explain the history of how I became friends first with Brett on the Jr. High playground as a matter of comedic inevitability. How our friendship grew in highschool to a very tight bond. Our falling out and the friendship we shared there after. How in our college years we fell victim to distance, new friends, and a busy schedule. The happy meetings that earmarked the holidays and a few nights in the summer when Brett would be on leave from his Marine training preparing him for Iraq. Then subsequently, how one such rendezvous in North Carolina turned into tragedy. And the eerie aftermath; the drive into the sunset with my thoughts on Brett while 500 miles away he struggled with his life. The commemorations, the new friends sharing in our sorrow, and the dream.

We shared the older- brother-5-year-difference dynamic. It seemed to link us via a higher bond. We had common ground because our older brothers had been friends for a while. If there is an age gap between brothers that guarantees the younger will idolize the elder, it is 5 years. We already understood each other, before we even met . And the playground was our stage. Just as the picture on his bulletin board depicts, we were comedic geniuses in eachother's eyes for the length of lunch break. Anyone who knew him will tell you he had an awesome laugh. Awesome in its power to start as a high pitched squeal and turn into a windfall of cackles, full of flowing snot and tears. He made a name from the way he did things. High energy, eager laugh, center of attention, contagious side-winder smile. In the midst of a conservative suburb, he brought an urban flavor, via the elder, in the way he dressed. He was cocking his hat a decade before MTV caught on. That confidently off-center, totally unique stance became Brett's brand. When he got a tattoo of a nail puncturing his wrist, he already had a following. He brought physical dominance to the wrestling arena, becoming the winningest in school history. His mom's house was the clubhouse for a gang of Brett-Backers. I'm pretty sure I became friends with a lot of people based on our mutual admiration of Brett. The view from his porch swing is burnt into our collective memory. What was funny there could make it anywhere. Everyone was so happy just to be around him. My favorite T-shirt at the time was an old wrestling shirt of his, which had BRETT written across the back in permanent marker. Over the left breast you could see the square of residue from when he washed it with the "hello my name is" sticker still attached. I loved Brett's brand that much. He helped me gain confidence at the awkward stage of life. I missed the lesson where he explained how to maintain balance and where to draw the line. At one point I crossed it. And just like that, I had breached his trust just enough to know that we could still be friends, but never in the same way. We talked about it, cleared the air, but my offense was minor only in my eyes. After that summer we drifted apart as I was away at school and out of the loop. The next few years his ass belonged to the Naval Academy. He went to wrestle. I wasn't sure the military aspect was sticking on him. He cut thoroughly loose whenever he could get away. I could see the changes. Before his freshman year, he got another tattoo. A Calvin and Hobbes comic strip of his own design. Calvin is seen flexing his skin and bones in the mirror. Hobbes is watching him and mutters, "he does this every morning." How perfect. The Brett I knew was the bare-assed Calvin scrambling to get away from a bath, milking every last moment of play, daring always to take the plunge, bruises born with pride. His tattoo is symbolic; its mirrored images portraying two Brett's, one flexes in mischief, the other in pride. And Hobbes, his chorus, barely able to stop watching long enough to roll his eyes. By the time he had started the preparation for acquiring his squad, the 40 young men he would lead into battle in Iraq, he was ready for another tattoo. A small group of us met at the tattoo parlor to bear witness. Waiting his turn, Brett held court for me one last time. He played off his brother, both posturing lovingly. We made fun of eachother, poking, jabbing. You had to be quick or be reduced to a spectator. Getting late, it was his turn. The stencil was laid on his left ribcage and wrapped around to his Lat. Calvin and his Lats, his pride and joy; the over-developed by-product of the elder's row machine in the basement of his Mom's house. The tattoo, an image of two Marines stalking through the shadow of Old Glory, M-16's drawn. Simply put, hard-core or bad-ass, you pick. The design was in response to the Marine phenomenon known as a Body Tag; your dog tag info tattooed onto your flank. As the ink began to flow, he began to fall behind in the conversation, mind numbed by the pain. I left late in the evening, shook his hand, gazed upon his thumb warped from toddlerhood sucking, and said goodbye for the last time, leaving him with his pain.

Driving towards the Iowa state line on I-88, you pass under the viaduct of Harmon Rd. The spelling is off, but the effect has always been the same. My thoughts circle back in time to my best friend. I remember little things and thought of the way he used to dance. His white man's James Brown won-over legions. My variation never quite caught fire the way his did. I thought to the wedding the last weekend he was in town. By then the tattoo he would get two days later would have been conceptualized. The dance floor was heating up, and yet he was not out there. I went to drag him out. He said after another drink. I said he used to get loose off of orange juice. No dice. I sensed the change in him. He would eventually make his way out there, but before it would've been his first stop. Thinking of this turn of events, my thoughts were concerned with the war in Iraq. I was scared to think what it would do to Brett. These thoughts of concern and dance moves drifted with me as I drove towards the horizon. Hundreds of miles away, at that exact time of day, Brett was dying from a gun shot wound that entered his neck and traveled down through his body on an angle. Three days later, upon returning from a Labor Day weekend, I was told the news over the telephone by a mutual friend. Shock set in. I turned on the TV to bad highschool yearbook pictures of my two best friends. The next days were a blur of people, memories, tears, sadness. I vowed to move forward. I got lost in memories. This world is on its head. Now, a few months removed, and to see what's happening in Iraq, I can't help but wonder what going over there would have done to Brett. I imagine there is no way he could come back unchanged. Dead? Wounded? Amputee? No visible wounds, but a mental case? The real horror might have been if we'd gotten him back but so messed up he was no longer himself. In an attempt to rationalize things, I look for solace in having Brett frozen in time. He was at the end of his care free days, at the height of his training, all potential. His soul was unburdened by the atrocities of war. I think I would take one more day with Brett, no matter the brand.

In the end, everyone loved Brett for their own reasons. When he let me into his mischievous world, that was my reason. He could invite you into his world and then make you feel like the center of it. That was his gift. My dream the other night, so classically Brett, was a little mischievous gift. And I fall asleep at night hoping it isn't the last.