A piece of my grainy, sepia-toned, scraped knees, and grass-stained childhood died today (June 6, 2024). One of my best friends, Tim (he’s on the right and I’m on the left) passed away this morning. I saw the missed call from his wife (I was brushing my teeth). I went back to the bathroom. I thought maybe she was calling to arrange a surprise for Tim with a trip out to San Francisco. We tried to do a similar thing when I lived in Memphis, but then the pandemic hit and I moved. When I saw the follow up text that said, “It’s Bryn… please call me” my heart sank. I called back. As the phone rang, I was still hoping for the surprise trip. In the split second between the words heart attack and he didn’t make it, a split second choked with tears, I wanted to interrupt her. I wanted to ask if he’s going to be ok as if in that pause that stretched a lifetime there was hope for a different outcome – as if the question might save him from what had already happened.
If ever I had a Tom Sawyer, rascal of a friend, it was Tim. He was all of the lovable scamps rolled into one: Eddie Haskell, Tom Sawyer, Jack Kerouac, or Dean Moriarity. Tim was funny and scrappy and, at times, a trouble maker. I’m pretty sure I had my first cigarette with Tim. I know we shot bb guns in his basement, knocking down his sister’s naked Barbie dolls that we had set up for target practice in and around the dreamhouse….. and we may have taken a car or two for joyrides when friends or parents fell asleep. We blew things up with firecrackers. We climbed trees, built forts, ran through the woods, and played stickball in the back parking lot of our elementary school. In our youngest years, we would play pirates on the bleachers in the gym while our brothers played basketball. We thought it was hilarious to yell out the phrase “swab the poopdeck.” Not long ago, Tim confessed that there was a time when his parents thought I might have been a bad influence on him. The only defense I can offer is to say it was mutual.
From high school on through adulthood, we drank together and bullshitted a lot. Tim was a good bullshitter – one of the best. We often argued those good, philosophical kinds of arguments which usually ended with Tim putting up his dukes like an old-timey boxer saying, “them’s fightin’ words.” We shared a love for music and the fantasy of the open-road, bohemian life. We talked about hiking the Appalachian Trail together – maybe when we turned 50. Tim turned 50 this past year and I turn 50 in August. When I was early in my career in publishing and living the upstanding, model citizen part of my life as a family man, Tim was my overly-romanticized counterbalance – jockeying cars as a garage attendant in Philly, getting stoned, and seeming free and happy. If my brother hadn’t been the best man in my wedding, Tim, a brother of choice, would have been.
Needless to say, I’m feelin’ the feels today. I’m profoundly saddened. I’m looking at some old photos. I’m waiting for the Facebook announcement and the collective sympathy acknowledging that the world is a little dimmer today – that we lost one of the good ones. I’m thinking about the last few times he and I talked or hung out – which, in hindsight, wasn’t enough. In moments like these, it’s never enough. I can still hear the way his voice cracked when he was being silly – which was most of the time. Most of all, I’m remembering his laugh. Every time we hung out together, we laughed.
I expect to fly back to Philly when arrangements are made. I may be asked to speak – which I’m not sure I can do without breaking down. I might quote the Velveteen Rabbit about having one’s hair loved off (Tim was balding). Tim was loose in the joints and sometimes shabby because Tim was was real. Tim was loved.
When I would go over to their house, Tim and his wife would remind their kids that I’m Tim’s oldest friend. I’d point out that I’m not that old. When she called today, his wife broke down – she had to call, I was his oldest friend. And he was mine.