I lost several important figures from my life story in 2020. I didn’t write about them… I’m not entirely sure why, other than avoidance. The entire year seemed to be out to end us, and now, tucked behind the imaginary wall of a new calendar, I felt safe. I felt like we survived, but “happily ever after” only happens where the author stops, follow it long enough and it’ll certainly end in death.

I recently heard of the passing of an old friend. This wasn’t the kind of friend I exchanged blood oaths with, or even really got to know all too well. I’ve written about such friends before and my journey to learn about them via their social media after their deaths, but in this case I haven’t even got that. 

His name was Brandon, we called him Brando, and frankly I never suspected there were extra letters on his birth certificate. Brando was the perfect name for this guy, “a real pisser” is what Stephen King would call him. He was the kind of person whose face apparently never aged, even as he covered his body with tattoos and scars. Brando was sweet, heartfelt, and someone who would fight an entire VFW hall of hardcore kids if things went sideways. I barely knew him and I loved him.

In those days we were up to all kinds of nonsense, both admirable and shameworthy. The whole group had a code, it wasn’t clearly defined or studied, it was just the way we were. Our value system included a self awareness that I don’t think I’ve encountered in as pure a form in any other chapter of my life. We were a pack, guys, girls, the oldest and youngest among us. We put a premium on humor (especially of a self deprecating variety) and Brando was the reigning champion. Tucked into track jackets and youth crew hoodies we were legion, and in that crew Brando was well known to be the first one to make a joke and the last one to stop laughing. He was also the one you would see huddled in quiet contemplation when one of ours was going through it and needed an ear. He had discovered a balance at a young age that many take a lifetime to discover.

But who was he? What had I missed out on? That kind of mystery is unkind because there is no real way of knowing for certain how different life would have been if I had gotten to know him better. I read these anecdotal stories of his generosity and authenticity and I feel robbed. I feel like I should have paid more attention to the folks with whom I spent long summers swimming at Wildcat Falls, smashing ceiling tiles at the Knight of Columbus, and spitting in the face of looming adulthood responsibilities. I lost touch with Brando, with the whole group really, when I moved to Boston in effort to find myself.

My dad used to quote the Three Stooges (I think?) saying “No matter where you go, there you are.” I never found it funny, and now that I’m sitting here a grown man of 41 who has spent the bulk of those years in transit seeking my secret identity I realize it is less of a joke and more of a Zen Koan. I was there… I was with Brando in a basement watching Jackass. I was front row screaming along with the incomprehensible lyrics of our friends bands. I was in the car, fingers crossed that it would live long enough to get us back to Manchester. I was standing by his side when Hammerskins showed up at the warehouse show. I was there, and still looking down the road believing that I could find some greater truth if I kept moving.

Part of losing track of old friends (for me anyway) involves creating this mythology about them, good and bad. I would believe my old friends no longer loved me, but I’d still exploit my friendship with them by telling their stories, catching some shine for having known such colorful characters. Brando was an exception, perhaps because we were never particularly close, maybe because I knew he wasn’t the sort to give a damn about such things. Brando seemed a transcendent sort who would just pick up and resume friendship, even a malnourished one.

I don’t know who he turned into. Guys like him can become monsters, a rebellion against this “nice guy” reputation, an effort to achieve a level of dynamism and establish that you are more than folks thought. Based on the stories I’ve heard about his life I’d say he never did… amazing… he was just kind and genuine (not perfect) from start to finish. That’s goals.

When people die we dig up every little kind thing they did, in the case of Brando it seems he was so kind that it’s all right there, still sitting on the undisturbed ground, no shovels required. There doesn’t seem to be a need to dress up his behavior or to let go of undesirable elements, they either didn’t exist or were so few and utterly human that they left no mark. Again, I reflect on someone who was several years my junior showing a degree of wisdom I continue to work toward.

Brando represents a major turning point in my life. I grew up in a fairly isolated community in southern New Hampshire and it was only after getting a car that I discovered that there were others like us in surrounding towns and cities. We had our own tight pocket of weirdos in Merrimack, but just north of us by 20 minutes, were others. When our groups merged it was a doubling of numbers and a surge of new influences. I imagine this to be how early human communities came together, cautious at first, then an exuberance to discover so many new perspectives. Were this a period of history prior to ours Brando was certainly positioned to be in a position of prominence, someone we could all trust and set our compass to.

Listen… I’m sure he had his shitty moments. I’m sure mistakes were made, feelings were hurt, and he wasn’t some cherubic ideal for any number of people, but I’m not concerned about that. Death reminds us that we shouldn’t be defined by our worst moments, or even our best; our lives, and indeed our value may be based on how much we worked with what we had at the time. Brando legitimately seemed to give more than he took, he loved more than he hated, he provided more laughter than tears; life is short and scary and at times terrible… for him to share so many gifts in that little time he had is remarkable. 

I’ll finish with a letter directly to Brando. Thanks for your time, reach out to an old friend.

Brando,

I don’t think you would find this blog entry very cool at all, I suspect that you’d make fun of it if I’m being real… but it’s been helpful to write, even if it didn’t capture a fraction of my feelings on the matter. Really I don’t care if you liked this or not, it’s kind of selfish anyway, and I thought others who might have known you would find some catharsis in such a thing… so fuck you.

Anyway, I deeply regret not getting to know you better. I respect the hell out of the fact that you didn’t keep a social media account, believe me I’ve been looking to see if you had anything and I keep finding these wack ass dudes with your name… ok I’m sure they’re fine, but they aren’t you.

I wanna thank you for accepting me and my friends. When we encountered your group it could have turned into some lame rivalry or whatever (I remember seeing others like me in the mall and calling them posers) but it didn’t and I think you were a critical component in that. You were immediately cool with us and I think even the older kids knew you were the leader…

I hope that life gave you what you wanted, and that you got to live it on your terms. I hope that the smiles weren’t hiding too much, and that when the end came you left us without too many regrets. I bet you did more in your brief life than most do in long, grinding ones, so let’s call it a win.

I’m going to learn from losing you. So many of us will.

That’s a promise,

Mike 6