He built a suitcase rack on top of his horse trailer one Saturday afternoon. Boredom, I suppose.
In the 15 years I saw this man on a daily basis, he never spoke to me. In the back of his mind, he had his mind set that I was a bad influence on his son. I was a best friend. One of many. Influence is earned. We all earned his son's influence. We were good people. We loved. We cared. We were all best friends.
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Stuck in a Sunday malaise, blood pressure rising to the point where I could hear my own heart beat. Any minute, I expected my left arm to go numb and then I'd drop to the floor; looking up at the half full mug of coffee wishing I had two more minutes to finish my morning vice.
I leaned back in my padded chair; waiting. I guess God wasn't quite ready to take me home.
Something divine, maybe random placed two documentaries into my queue. Chris Farley was first, followed by Andre the Giant.
Farley's dad was 650 pounds. A lovely man, by all accounts. All that resonated with me during the 90-minute Farley documentary was his love for his father. One man carrying the shame of his out of control weight and the son who idolized him. When love is pure, it is the most beautiful sight and sound on earth.
Andre the Giant lived on a farm in his final years; surrounded by farm animals and pets. Dozens of them. When asked why he had so many, he stated, "They never look twice at me". I imagine being Andre wasn't easy. He couldn't hide. Judgment waited around every corner. A 7'4, 500 pound man will always be the center of unwanted attention. Andre's friends all referred to him as a gentle giant. A lovely man, by all accounts.
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His father was hard to figure out. We would come stumbling into the house drunk late at night and he would be standing in front of the television; watching soft core porn on Cinemax. When he heard us laugh, he would turn off the TV and hide in the dark until we were gone. That man was an OB/GYN. Why would he need porn? He sees that shit all day long. We pondered that question on many drunken nights.
In the 15 years, I saw that man on a daily basis, he yelled at me once. I never had a father so I enjoyed the negative attention.
His relationship with his two sons and two daughters seemed odd from my perspective. He seemed distant. There was a quiet resentment from his oldest son. A resentment that seemed to bear the blame for his drinking.
We spent a Saturday afternoon in the smoky club house of the rehab center he checked himself into. We openly discussed his drinking and his relationship with his father. I couldn't relate. I could only listen. The excuses were palpable. Genetics. Dad was always working. Depression.
Buddy, genetics control the disease but YOU control your genes. That was all I really said that day.
Two months later, he was gone.
We all lost a best friend.
It was a fitting gray Thursday when he was buried. I stood in the foyer alone of the church as the other best friends were huddled together yards away. I was just observing. Taking deep breaths. Observing, some more. Trying to process my thoughts. Searching for my lost emotions. Looking for answers.
His father slowly walked over to me. His face had aged remarkably that week. He grabbed me. And he wept. Sobbed. He was broken, I guess.
He didn't say a word to me. He didn't need to.
Tears from a stoic man, a misunderstood father, a gentle giant... those tears are contagious.
I suppose this was the only time in my life where I witnessed a father's love firsthand.
And it remains as the most
beautiful sight and sound I have ever witnessed.
