Goodbye, Forever Friend
Thanks for the memories … and the laughter
By Ron Ciancutti
In my quiet, little hometown—like many other communities—students made the jump from sixth grade to seventh grade by entering junior high school. There was the typical hesitation and fear of leaving the safety and security of the neighborhood elementary school, where all our fellow students lived within blocks of the building. We had one teacher for all subjects, and Mom could fetch us in minutes if we were feeling ill.
Åaker, Unsplash
But junior high incorporated students from three surrounding towns, so now classmates were often foreign. We also changed classes throughout the day with a frantic 4-minute rush between sessions, paced by a series of bells and tones. You can imagine the panic of a young man on the first few days when the fear of not being where he was supposed to be weighed heavy on his mind.
A Haphazard Introduction
My first-period math class was with a teacher in his fifties with a crew cut, broad shoulders, heavy glasses, and a barking, sergeant-like voice. Dashing into that class, I bumped into a fellow who seemed equally worried about being on time. We took front-row seats across the middle aisle directly in front of the podium to illustrate our cooperative behavior. We exchanged glances and smiles; I had never seen him before, but we seemed to be on the same page. As our stern teacher began to wax poetic over the place that math had in our lives, I noticed the man’s fly on his trousers was undone. My new friend noticed as well, and we exchanged more glances and started to snicker. Then the teacher closed the book on his hand and visibly winced; there was more contained laughter. My eyes began to water. In the next moment, the teacher lost his place, and as he flipped the pages in his book, it fell off the podium. My new friend and I burst into laughter and were then called out for being disrespectful. What a nice start to seventh grade, huh?
Hours later, as fate would have it, my earlier acquaintance was assigned to the same lunch table as I. We immediately talked about our morning delinquent experience, and a friendship began that continues strong to this day. My new buddy was named Brett. He was just as sarcastic as I, and had a quick wit, too. From that day forward, as soon as I saw him or heard his voice on the phone, I began to laugh. Our greeting back then was as it is today, “How ya doin’, buddy?” A basic hello that really says, “What hilarious observation have you made about life since I last saw you?” Brett always had a new story about some kid throwing a fit in the grocery store, some dog pulling his owner into a mud puddle from a short leash, stuff like that—heck, we were in seventh grade, but the die was cast. When we were together, we always laughed.
The Meat Of The Friendship
Soon, high school came along, and we enjoyed Friday night football, band concerts, school dances, first dates, and broken hearts. We also picked up a couple other “brothers of humor” and formed an even stronger relationship as the four of us became a school-famous comedy team, performing at “student talent night” shows and being class clowns every chance we got. We left teachers shaking their heads and stifling laughter, but we never went too far. We were clean, quick-witted, yet respectful. “Those boys are hilarious,” teachers would say. “They really enjoy life.”
Years passed, and those buddies from my youth stayed in my life to a certain degree, but none as much as Brett.
“I got a new apartment,” I said.
“I have a truck and will help you move,” Brett replied.
“I’m throwing a big barbeque,” I said.
“I’ll do all the cooking,” Brett offered.
He visited me at college—always bringing our hometown gang of characters.
Courtesy of Ron Ciancutti
We sat freezing in cavernous Cleveland Municipal Stadium and watched the hapless Browns stumble over themselves season after season. Staring at the snow-covered cement floors, shaking my head, and cracking up as another pass was dropped or overthrown, I asked, “Next year?” “Well, sure, why not?” Brett responded.
Brett and I once took a road trip to Pittsburgh with another group of friends to watch the Penguins rule the NHL.
We often organized 10-car convoys to outdoor concert venues and smuggled in kegs of beer for everyone to enjoy. “How did those guys get away with that?” people wondered aloud. “I don’t know, but they always do!”
Another time we picked a car out of a junkyard, fixed it up, and raced it at the Spectator Stock Car Races in the fan-based speedway nearby. We laughed a lot about the night we were holding first place until the car ran out of gas. “Oops, whose turn was it to get the gas?”
One time we loaded up a couple trucks and headed north to Canada to spend a week fishing near Sudberry, where nasty Northern Pike, measuring two or three feet long, fought like a ‘gator.
We spent icy Cleveland weekends watching back-to-back-to-back football games with six to 10 great guys who inhaled pizza and burgers and insulted each other constantly, never meaning a word of it (“you moron”).
Sometimes we sat along the waterfront in the Cleveland Flats listening to hometown garage bands and drinking Stroh’s Bohemian Beer, toasting our friendship and enjoying the lake-cooled breezes until the wee hours of the morning.
And we laughed like old friends laugh over the dumbest things, with tears pouring from our eyes. The type of laugh you can’t share with the female persuasion (excuse my momentary sexism). Any right-thinking female would say, “You guys are idiots,” and she would be right.
And, once in a while, a moment would remind us that the days were passing and time was fleeting. There would be mile markers, such as weddings, parental illnesses and funerals, accidents, and minor tragedies, but in those moments, it was heartening to see a life-long partner steadfast and nodding approval with a smile. “It’s going to be all right. Give it time. We will laugh some more.”
Brett and I stood in each other’s weddings, took on careers, and headed our own ways. But we always reached out at holidays and in times of need; our ships seemed to forever sail in the same direction.
As more time passed, I retired just as Brett was folding up his self-started transportation business. Its demise had been heavily impacted by COVID-19. Though it was difficult, he navigated a successful transition and was beginning to contemplate a lighter load for the future. Lives had been lived and mortgages were more in the rearview mirror than in the front windshield. It was time for the next stage.
The End Of A Journey
It turned out that the next stage was a far cry from what I had predicted. Yes, it had been a great run, but it was clearly over.
One early morning I received an urgent email from one of my high-school buddies who happened to talk to Brett the night before. Brett was in the hospital with multiple symptoms, and terms like “MRI, CAT Scan, malignant,” and “getting his affairs in order,” were being used. My friend also stressed that Brett intended to handle the situation with his usual stoic style; there would be no phone calls. I would get news when there was news to report. Pity would not be entertained.
I gathered as much news as possible, and slowly a picture began to develop. Brett was very sick. He was not going to recover. In short, my lifelong partner would soon be gone.
It’s difficult to convey the rush of emotions that washed over me. I imagine it compares to the moment a family is told the surgery was not successful, or a person is fired from a job, or a spouse asks for a divorce. It is instant tragedy—a feeling of unrecoverable loss and nothing can be done to fix it, change it, or reverse it.
There were phone calls to be made, denials and rejections to resist, and people had to be given time to ask me again and again, “Are they sure?”
So, my wife and I sent a giant bouquet of chocolate-covered fruit and Brett immediately sent an email of thanks. My return message was simple:
“My dearest brother. There are no words. I’m told you don’t want to talk. You know I get that. When you find that you do want to open that door, I’m right here where I’ve always been.”
An hour later Brett responded, “Promise.”
As I finish this essay, it is the beginning of April. Brett has seen all the doctors, and all the doctors have seen him. I find myself awake at odd hours of the morning. I slip out of bed and make a cup of tea. I sit in the darkness looking out the window and wondering if he is in pain, if his mind is frantically searching for answers. Sometimes the lump in my throat is too big to swallow, but I compose myself, , thinking that, if he can be strong, I certainly can be. But, alas, it’s not really the same.
Because my loss will be twice his. Until my last days.
P.S. On Apil 7, I could deny myself no more and my wife and I drove up Brett’s driveway without invitation, but with simple determination. His stepdaughter and he had seen me in the driveway, so I didn’t need to knock. She opened the door and he sat quietly on the couch looking up at me. I sat down next to him and we smiled at each other much like we had done 45 years earlier. We spoke about what was happening and I broke down for a moment. He was so gaunt, his voice but a whisper. He began to speak and then choked on a few words, so we sat there in silence. “Know always that you made a huge difference in my life, my brother. You really mattered,” I said. He nodded as tears ran down his face. The tension broke and he invited my wife in who had waited patiently in the car. After a few tears, she excused herself and it was time to say the real goodbye. We both knew it was probably the last time and I took him by the shoulders and drilled into his eyes. All the memories were there, all the important events we shared, how much we counted on each other without ever a fail. Our grip was like iron, it spoke volumes.
The next day his wife texted me, telling me the visit lifted him so much that he said it was “fantastic.” It had been the same for me.
Around 7 p.m. on April 9, Brett left this world and my life will never be the same. Sleep well my brother. You were a blessing to me from the day we met.
Ron Ciancutti worked in the parks and recreation industry since he was 16 years old, covering everything from maintenance, operations, engineering, surveying, park management, design, planning, recreation, and finance. He is now retired. He holds a B.S. in Business from Bowling Green State University and an M.B.A. from Baldwin Wallace University. He is not on Facebook, but he can be reached at ron@northstarpubs.com.