Hey, Dude

“A brother is a gift to the heart, a friend to the spirit.” -- Unknown

I keep waiting for my brother to call me for one our nearly daily chats, but the phone isn’t ringing.

Peter, two years my senior, would call from his job or on his evening commute, or on his way to Tai Chi class.

He’d always start off with his greeting: “Hey, dude, how’s it going?” and then we’d talk about movies, TV shows and politics—especially politics.

I hadn’t spoken to him in a few days and so I fully expected to hear from him on Saturday morning.

When the phone did ring, it was his daughter, my niece, Kristin, calling to tell me that my brother had died. He was about a month away from his 70th birthday.

The details are slim. He had been complaining about his blood pressure earlier in the week, but it seemed to be getting better.

Then on Saturday morning my sister-in-law found him in bed unresponsive and called an ambulance, but there was nothing they could do.

I still can’t believe he’s gone, I still can’t believe I’ll never hear his voice again. I’m frightened, I’m in shock and I don’t know what to do next.

There are so many things I want to talk to him about and I have to keep reminding myself that he’s not here anymore.

Although we spoke on the phone often, I hadn’t seen him in years and for the longest time I’d said I’m visit him and his wife at their home in New Jersey.

I thought we’d have more time, but doesn’t everybody?

As the shock recedes, the memories are coming forth.

Like most siblings, we fought a lot as kids and when we weren’t fighting for real, we’d have these mock battles—or “playfighting” as we called it--to a point that our father dubbed us “The Tiresome Twosome.”

Peter knew how to irritate the old man like nobody else in the family. My father once declared that only a schmuck would order a chef salad at a restaurant because—he claimed—it was made of all leftovers that normally would’ve been thrown out.

I doubt this, but just to get on our father’s nerves, Peter made a point of ordering chef salads routinely during his lunch breaks—and made sure to tell my father all about it.

There was a time when our dad had been after Peter to help him repair the rickety steps leading to the basement of our home. After getting no response, Dad finally did the job himself and tried razzing Peter about it.

One Good Push

“Phoebe is afraid to walk down those stairs,” my brother snorted, referring to our family cat.

Peter taught me how to ride a bicycle back when I was woefully behind all the other kids on the block and still riding around with training wheels.

I remember the two of us in the baseball field at Lief Ericson Park, with Peter holding on to my bike as I prepared for my solo ride.

“Do this right,” he said, “and I’ll like you.”

And with one push he sent me on my way and I started riding on my own.

Years later, when I was a freshman at Brooklyn Technical High School, I sat alone in the school’s cafeteria on my first day, terrified by all the new faces in the massive building that was nothing at all like my old Catholic grammar school in Bay Ridge.

And then from the corner of my eye, I saw someone pulling out the chair across from me and throwing his books down on the table.

When I turned, I saw it was Peter. I don’t think I was ever happier to see him than in that moment.

He rode me out to JFK in 1981 when I took my trip to Dublin. Always a fast driver, Peter raced me out to the airport in his little two-seater whatever.

He smiled when he noticed the color had drained from my face.

“After this, flying won’t be seem so scary,” he said.

Right now, I’d give anything to be in that little car with my brother again.

This morning, I listened to Joel Osteen—Peter wasn’t a fan--and he talked about maintaining a healthy soul. He was giving good advice, but I was feeling bitter and angry.

“My brother just died, pal,” I snarled at my TV. “What do you have to say about that?”

He must’ve heard me because moments later, he said that if one a loved one dies, “go out and do great things, make them proud by leaving your mark.”

I’m not sure how I’m going to do that just yet, but I’ll find a way.

And in the meantime, Peter, thanks for the bike riding lessons--and so much more.