Lost & Found Pt. 2

It would be another hundred paragraphs if I explained just how much my life was hectic and full of changes from Matthew’s wedding until now. Going from employed and doing well, to unemployed with no car and no place to stay; on to eventually achieving my dream of being a firefighter and slowly getting my life in order. It's safe to say the changes were frequent and rapid. I am not the person I was two years ago, and the person I was six years ago is something like that of legend now. I never forget about Matthew. I would go through various jags of calling all of our mutual friends and ask if they knew about him (we did not have many mutual friends). I would find recording of his bands and download them to hear his voice. I would go to places I knew him to frequent. I spent at many nights searching through countless person search websites. Weeding through the Google results was tedious. There are other people with his name, with plenty of sites talking about their professional work. He was always someone to be under the radar. He never created any significant online identity, never having a website, social networking profile or email. Even his part in bands would get minor mention on the internet, unless it was the band in general. Matt is still nowhere to be found.

New Years Day 2010, Phil posted an update on a social networking site about Matt sending people weird text messages. This shocked me; I did not even know they knew each other well enough to still be in touch. I sent a message asking Phil to forward my number to Matt. To tell him, I have been looking for him for half a decade. Knowing he was alive and in contact with people reinvigorated my hopes to reconnect with him. At this point, the fact that Matthew and I have not had contact started to raise many questions in me. I have lost many friends through time, due to many reasons; some of them to distance, and lack of contact, personality conflict and arguments. I wondered why it was that we had not been in contact. Was it intentional? Did I do something to offend him? I was broke at the time of the wedding and couldn’t afford a gift, maybe he was offended that I showed up empty handed? With all of these possibilities, I felt awkward to bother Phil asking if he heard from Matt about my number. I was left thinking I would only bother Phil if a significant time went by without any progress.

In searches, I eventually found an address in Port Jervis, NY that had Matt as the tenant. This was about an hour and half drive away. I never found a phone number. So no call could be made. I sat with this address in my mind for a few days, working up the initiative to take the drive and face that mystery solving moment. I drove up there one night on a whim. On the way, I realized it was getting late, and with a child in the house; it would be too late to ring the doorbell. I decided, I already initiated the drive and would go anyway, at least to see if there was any sign that this was his home.

I eventually pulled up to the house. It was a quiet rural area, but on one of the main Routes. The sun was already down and there was not a light on in the house. I double-checked the address and it all matched. I pulled into the empty driveway. I got out and looked into the garage, no cars there either. I walked up to the front door. A playhouse and bikes littered the yard; I thought of their children and hoped this was a good sign. On the porch, the screen door had been duct taped, signs of the screen’s fasteners failing. I looked into the living room window and listened for noise. The house was dark and silent and I was disappointed. I started wondering what excuses there could be for the house being empty. Was this not their house? Was it ever? I know Jackie was a nurse; maybe she was working a night shift and the kids were at the grandparent’s house. I knew all the guessing in the world would solve nothing so I walked back to the car and started to drive away. I was deflated; I felt such anticipation to finally reconnect with them. When the house was silent and empty, I left feeling the same. As I drove away, I hated the feeling that this was a futile trip. All of the mysteries about the house left me wanting more, I turned the car around and went back into the driveway. I found a piece of paper and wrote and then rewrote a note to “Matt &/or Jackie?”. I gave a message and my phone number and asked that if the tenants of the house was neither Matt nor Jackie that they contact me and make me aware that I need to continue my search. I expected nothing, but left the note attached to the duct tape on the front door.

Nothing happened for quite some time after I left the note. No calls, no new addresses found. Maybe my guess was true. Maybe it was Matt’s intention to avoid contact? Maybe the stresses of fatherhood and married life just lead him to decide less people in it would make things easier; and I was one the ones who had to go? I thought of that house often, of how the driveway and garage were empty. I pondered the many reasons any house would be that quiet and felt a need to get myself back up to it during daytime hours and see if anything was different. I had a busy schedule of classes and work for the next couple of weeks. Another road trip would have to wait.

Two months after the trip up to the house, I received short notice from a friend that he had an extra ticket to a show in Brooklyn. It was a band I had not seen in years and was very excited to go. We went into the city early enough to stop at a local bar and meet up with a few friends. I also managed to find a few friends I knew from high school. Eventually, the large crowd we gathered walked to the concert and went on to enjoy the beers, laughs and music. My friend had gotten lost in the crowd; After the last band finished, I went looking for him and I bumped into the bassist of my second band with Matthew. I was surprised to see him after so long and we caught up a bit on life. His current band was recording a new record and he was doing well. I eventually asked him about Matthew. When I brought him up, Sean said ‘Oh, I guess you haven’t heard?’ My heart sunk as I saw the look on his face, he was about to share bad news he had come to peace with but knew I would need a second to handle.

‘I haven’t heard anything about him in ages and have been searching for him.’

‘Well, Bryan; Matthew is in prison.’


Burned Wood and Lost Wishes: Lost & Found Pt. 3

Lost & Found Pt. 1

Matthew was one of my best friends. He was my brother, my band mate. He was my Neal and I was his Jack. We met at a punk show in a squat in NYC. It was a tense introduction, and we left thinking each other was an asshole.
On another day, we met up at a gas station in Long Island. I was asking directions to a show, he happened to also be going to it so I followed him there, but we hardly spoke. After the show ended, my ex and I headed west; back to NJ. We stopped to eat at a diner. A little while after we sat down Matthew and Jackie walked in. I invited them to sit with us, and by the end of the night we were beginning to be friends. It turned out that, though we met up twice in NYC and he had an easily identifiable NYC accent, he was actually living in Dingmann's Ferry, PA. About thirty minutes from where I lived at the time.
It wasn't long after that Matthew and I were spending a lot of time together. He and I had many things in common. We loved the same music, authors and hobbies. We both grew up in inner city neighborhoods and had difficult relationships with our fathers growing up.  We would hike the woods of NJ and PA, sometimes just finding calm places to talk into the night about our confusion of getting through our twenties. We went out skateboarding, went to punk shows, and eventually we started making music together. Matt and I were in two bands together. The music we made back then was a reflection into the confused and angry mind I was in back then, but I remember every note and show we played, and they are some of my most fond memories.
There was a night I needed a friend badly; due to my girlfriend of more than six years and I broking up. Matt came over with a couple six packs of Anchor Steam and we drank and talked into the night. We decided to play some music. I was on my acoustic guitar and Matthew sang. That night, our musical instincts and emotional connection were in perfect sync. We recorded five or six impromptu songs, all completely off the cuff, and they are the most emotional and nostalgic songs I ever wrote. The recording, is sadly, long gone, but that magical night echoes on in my mind.
As time passed, Matthew's relationship with Jackie got more serious. I was having my own complications in life and things were changing. I would see him less. A few weeks would go by, but we would eventually call each other and make time to get together. Eventually, I got an invite to their wedding. I went and had a great time, hoping this was the moment where things would only get better. For my relationship with him. It would not go as planned. I had to move not too long afterward and when I got settled in and tried to call Matt, his cell was disconnected. There had been more than a few times one of us would lose our cell or have to move; we always ended up finding a way to reconnect. That is not the case this time. It is now six years later, and I never received a phone call from him since.



Burned Wood and Lost Wishes: Lost & Found Pt. 2

Nana’s Gift

For ages, the spirits of artists
have been filling heaven.
enhancing the gallery of clouds
filling the closet of colors, ideas and brush-strokes.
Even working with light in northern evenings.

The conventional white and blue, still popular,
images of random objects, animals, faces of lovers;
within the white and gray.

Sometimes they give us a blue canvas
with small faded clouds, far away,
like missed chalk-marks on a lazily cleaned board.
Other days, they overdo themselves,
leaving us to guess the colors we would see.
The sun blocked by a pile of afghans.

Today, the sky is a gift
from my grandmother
whispering to the spirits
“Try to add green, he loves green
and layer it, he bores easily”

A Letter to My Eventual Child

I have done enough hating for the both of us
Criticized the way anthills are made
How there never is enough time to do things the right way

Have commented on people’s clothes
the way they walk in them
thinking my style and posture
was a reflection of a god

I have lost my temper and yelled
at an inanimate object
threatening it with kicks and curses
I have believed everything bad in the world has happened to me
That nothing can go right
if I am associated with it

I have thought it was the end of the world
to not be happy with my father
Ignoring that he is human and capable of error
I have found excuses for why
I never thanked my mother enough instead

Losing the one I love because
I complained about the song
Instead of dancing with her
A negative side to everything bad
and most things good

I am over it now
I have gotten all of this hating out of the way
So when you are born
and we are together
You will be a better person
than me

The Pallbearer

For some reason I remember the weather that day as sunny and cold. Paterson, New Jersey. In a Roman Catholic church I know I have been in a lot, but only remember break-dancing at the summer cook outs they had behind the school. Like most churches, this one was usually filled with elderly people, begging for mercy in their final years. Before they ascend into the fictitious hell or heaven they believed in. Today was slightly different. There was a very mixed crowd. Their ages ranging from three to eighty-three. All of their faces familiar. Some of them close family members; some of them I knew were related to me, even though I can’t remember how or when I last saw them. I was standing on the right hand side of the aisle. Six of us lined up, casket in hand.
Usually, when our family has these gatherings it would be the six brothers: my uncles Art, Jim, John, Mike, Bob, and my father, Tom. Today, I was promoted to pallbearer. The last time the brothers lined up like this my grandmother was between them, inside. That was seven years ago. This time Uncle Mike, Fat Mike as we called him, was in the center being carried. And with him passing in his sleep, I was promoted.
Most of the memories are a blur. I remember it started to rain when we finally drove to the church. A large dump-truck was driving in a rush and hydroplaned into the procession line, almost taking out Uncle Jimmy’s car.
As I stood in the aisle, I was uncomfortable, as I always am when I am around my father's family. I looked around for support. Most people just prayed there, looking up, probably asking God why he would take away Uncle Mike at such a young age. I glanced over at my grandfather. Surrounded by my aunts, he barely had any expression on his face, besides obvious grief. Much like how he looked when Nana passed away. I felt so frustrated for my grandfather. Your children should not pass-on before you do, especially when they’re only in their early-thirties.
The coffin was heavy, and cold. I think one of my uncles nervously made a joke about Mike’s weight. As we all did throughout his life, but only after he would have a comment for us.
The organ started. We all jumped slightly, knowing this would be the last contact with Mike we would have physically. Every one in the pews slowly rose. We slowly headed towards the double-doors. I hated the thought that this was the only way the family ever got together, yet I knew it to be the entire truth. I hardly ever saw my father, let alone the rest of the family. Everyone was quiet among the pallbearers. Except Uncle John, who quietly wept, almost letting go of the casket entirely. We struggled to keep Mike up as someone gave John a few words of support. We got to the stairs and paused to make sure everyone was ready for the last of the haul. Slowly the people from inside filed out and spread among the grass and sides of the staircase. We slowly positioned the coffin into the back of the hearse. As we let the car take on more of the weight I realized just how heavy it was. I heard my father weep something to himself as we pushed. When the end of the casket was in, I backed away.
My father turned to face me. I reached up to him and hugged him. My father rested his head in my shoulder and cried ‘God Damn It!’ We stood there for a minute or two. Now calm, my father let go and walked over to his other brothers. We then went to the graveyard and the party afterward. Most detail after that becomes a blur.
That was the first time my father ever cried to me like that. And the last time I can remember hugging him.

In The Basement Apartment

Mom appears through the apartment door
holding her nose crying
blood dripping down her waitress white shirt
the baby-sitter gets her ice
a towel for the bleeding
she is cursing and crying
I hear the rumble of my fathers' Malibu outside
the baby-sitter helps her take her coat off
What happened Mommy, did Daddy hit you?
the engine's fumes billow into the window
noise and smells adding to the confusion
Mom pays the baby-sitter from her black apron
food stains wet from ice and blood
she says she got mugged
If you got mugged Mommy, call the police
I hear my father pull away
Mom tells the baby-sitter she could go
sits down on the couch
I crawl up on her lap
pull back her hair
wet with tears and sweat
Don't worry Mommy, I'll protect you

17.4.03

By the time I was born
he had been playing music for forty years
So why, at the age of seventy
he still felt the need to practice was beyond me
but now with him gone for only ten days
I am thankful for hearing those never ending ups and down
The Soundtrack To My Childhood.

His full head of salt and pepper hair
with brave sideburns
the clarinet sticking out from the cheeks
between the chops
slight head tilt, back and forth
left and right
keeping rhythm with the lifting and falling notes

He would play songs too
being so young i didn't know
Mack the Knife or
Strutting With Some Barbeque
All I knew then was The Muppet Show
All I remember are the graceful steps
From low B to High C then Low A to High B
Maybe he was telling me
that life has it's ups and downs, high and lows

Ten days ago
his family surrounding him
sharing memories and talking to him
half conscious but foot still tapping
arthritic fingers still playing notes with
The Joe Mooney Quartet on the CD player
He finally perfected the simultaneous High and Low A's
The highest and lowest he could get

As I held his hand
he took his last breath
let all of his pain win
But lost all of his pain, forever.