There
was no mistaking the flashing lights, we were about to have a police encounter.
As the officer walked up to the car, we hid the beer bottles under our
seats. The six month old VM Microbus sat in the outside lane on the
ascending slope of a four lane three-mile-long suspension bridge. Without
waiting to be asked my brother handed the officer his license, registration and
proof of insurance.
Leaning
in the window of the microsbus the officer gave us a stern look. Glancing
at the documents the uniformed man asked if my brother knew why he pulled us
over. Jerry flashed that “all shucks” look that he had all but patented
and said “Honestly officer I think you might be stopping us because you think
we intentionally skipped paying the toll. But the truth is we didn’t
intend to get on the bridge. We got turned around at that pull off back
there and instead of going back into Delaware we ended up headed toward New
Jersey.” Every word he had just spoken was total horseshit but the sound of
those phrases just oozed with smooth sincerity.
Officer
Bosman carefully scanned my brother up and down. I merited only a glance.
“Jerry Todd,” he said, “Do I know you?”. Something clicked in my
brother’s memory. “Bosman, are you the Bosman that took my sister to that
big dance. What has it been 15 years since I saw you?”
At
that moment, my brother had taken complete control over the situation. The
cop smiled and asked how my sister was doing. “Married” laughed my
brother. Officer Bosman relaxed. “I am sorry boys he said but I
gotta write for avoiding the tollbooth. You can appeal this of course at
the Justice of the Peace Court in New Castle. You know I don’t think I will be
showing up for that hearing.” My brother’s smile had avoided yet another
disaster. No OUIL, no contributing to the delinquency of a minor and a
cop had just told him that if he appealed the ticket by showing up in court,
he'd probably win it.
My
brother died two months ago. That force of nature that was his smile is
nothing but part of 13 ounces of ash in a ceramic jar on a mantle in a
beachside house in Mexico. His life force touched me; I think I got a bit
of that shuck and jive just by watching him. How many times did I watch him
just smile and say I understand and then follow up with a question about where
the person was from based on their accent? Invariably, he would follow that up
by listing a place he had lived near where the speaker was from in Texas, or California
or North Carolina. Watching him taught me to listen for the little things
that give you access to the person in front of you that just wants to be known.
A
few years ago, my youngest son and I arrived at a bar in a beachside resort. It
was roughly late dinner time on a late week night. The manager could come
up with a table for six but eight would require an hour wait. The lad and
I decided we would go into the bar and eat and let everyone else take the
table. My son was about 16 at the time.
In
the course of our time at the bar I ordered a beer and the boy had a pop.
We placed our dinner orders and waited. A guy sat down beside us and called for
a single malt. He had a southern accent and within two questions I knew
he was from Louisville, Kentucky. The man and I talked about the
nightmare for the locals the Derby week causes. “Me,” I said, “I always
stayed out of town at a little campground. Nope I was no part of your problems
with race day tourists. On race day, its straight to the track and when
the race was done, I left.” He smiled and said you’re the kind of people
we like, you just leave your money and most likely you don’t piss on my
lawn. The boy giggled. I told the man I didn’t sit in the infield
winning me bonus points with the now not so strange stranger. He gave me
tips on some great bar-b-que joints in Louisville and headed off.
Next,
I met two women up from North Carolina as they saddled up to the bar. We
talked about the beaches around Wilmington. I mentioned that I had spent
a few weeks down at a beach house on Henderson Beach with my brother.
Jerry was once a lifeguard and a student at UNCW. The women laughed and
told me about their upcoming loop of the nearby vineyards. I told them my
favorite spots to stop and sample the best wines. I also told them about
a great little dive they needed to have lunch at. Our food came and the
ladies and I finished up our conversation. They had moved on by the time
our food came.
My
son looked at me in a way that is hard to describe. We talked about what
had just happened. He seemed surprised to see how easily I moved into
conversations. He admitted he struggled in that area. This made me
smile both inside and out. My thoughts drifted back to my brother.
Finding a way to make a positive connection no matter what the circumstance,
with a smile and a line, my brother gave me that gift. As my son looked
at me and kept talking about how smoothly I moved between conversations I could
see my brother’s brown hair and mustache looking all the world like Sam Elliott
smiling and moving past the velvet rope into whatever club he wanted.
Yeah,
those bits and bobs of remains sitting on that mantle don’t do justice to the
force of life that was my brother. He had an aura. He had a will to
live and live life fully. From sucking down 100-year-old cognac to
driving fast and tight he was in for the whole E ticket ride. I am glad I
got the chance to watch a master.
