text: Tony So, Tony. What can I say? I've tried a thousand times. The engineer in me says "list attributes," so I'm going to start with that. Which is another lie. On June 19, 1980 (that's fake, made up for narrative purposes, but pretty close, I think), somewhere around noonish, Tony rode his bike up the alley and skidded into my driveway. We were both 12 years old. I was out there banging a whiffle ball around the yard, really busy. "I'm headed to the beach to meet Hanner and Schadler (change these names to fake ones, this all really happened), wanna come?" We were 12, and young guys called everyone by their last names. Except Tony, we all called Tony... Tony. Geographical note: My old hometown sits about 250 feet atop a bluff overlooking Lake Michigan. For anyone in the town, the Lake is sorta omnipresent. From most places in town it was just there, a giant patch of blue stretching to the horizon. If you couldn't actually see it, you still knew it was there. The beat of its waves on the shoreline came through the rock into your feet. I learned Cardinal directions that way... the Lake is always West, just look, there it is. Downtown is North of it, and South Shore Bowling Alley is South (they had a cool video arcade). East is the other one. Also, it was not at all uncommon in my town for pretty much anyone over 8 years old or so to head to the beach for a dip or to fish for perch off the piers. It was like... what we did. "Nah. I'm busy." "But the waves are coming up!" And they were. I had the TV on that morning like everyone else. It was sunny and warm, but storms were coming over from Chicago. And that could be super fun. "Nah." Tony was, in my memory, crestfallen. But he pedaled away. And I continued banging the whiffle ball around the yard. And as the rules of any dramatic narrative dictate (even a truthful one), Tony never returned as a living person. What am I to do with that? That was a big "Nah." That was a butterfly's wings, my friend. So context: (I think this is the list of attributes I promised myself and you earlier. Maybe.) Tony was.. Tony. Kid was the classic 85 pound weakling. Tiny, thin, pale. But he was also a talker. Like, a LOT of talking. He would talk for minutes which felt like hours about kinda, anything. To put it in the term of the day, he was a spaz. Like a complete and utter spaz. I'm not being untruthful if I say that everyone hated Tony. He was bullied on the playground, he was pushed over in the halls of the school just for laughs, he was a target for all of our monkey tribal anxieties. He was what we did not want to be. Who was "we?" Still trying to figure that one out. Tony did Scouting. So many badges, hand sewn into the lapel. Uniform hung proudly on his bedroom door. He could focus that spaz energy given a task. I respected that. He collected bugs. Like '50s style... meticulously and respectfully pinned on foamboard. He collected baseball cards with a vengeance. You did not want to trade with Tony... He knew Robert's Rules of Order (I remember that specifically, because he said it a lot) and he'd win your best card and get the gum. He was completely unafraid to try anything. He was immune to all social cues flying like bricks at his head... "calm down, Tony." Nope. Tony was 4,000 RPMs, 24/7. He had an aquarium. And that was the real thing. You see, for a little while, I also tried to have an aquarium. That's where it all started. Columbia Aquariums... It was on... Columbia Avenue. That place no longer exists. I'd ride my bike up there and wander the aisles looking at fish. And they had frogs, like exotic ones. The light was low-key. The aquariums glowed. It was warm and magical and smelly. One day Tony was there. That kid took me from tank to tank and explained more than I ever wanted to know about every fish in the building. And I listened. He was compelling. He knew his shit. Tony started coming to my house to check on my aquarium. He'd just roll up on his bike and let himself in. He didn't like it much. I was not a good aquarium-ist, apparently. I was doing it wrong. (Turns out he was right about that too). I cannot say what happened or how, but Tony and I became brothers. We were the same age, but I felt like he was... vulnerable? He needed help. I absolutely do not think he saw it that way. I think he was showing me the way to live life, not vice-versa. But the kids, myself included (we're being honest here, right?), they were mean to Tony. Like really mean. And I didn't like that. But if I can be informal, Tony was a HUGE pain in the ass! "Nah." That's what I said that morning. Why didn't I ride down with him to the Lake shore that afternoon? I rode down there hundreds of times for fun. But not that day. There's a question for y'all. You know those times when you're grouped up, and someone isn't there, and kids start talking shit? It's a normal thing, and we all do it. Even you, reader, have had shit talked about you, and have talked shit yourself, promise. But I found myself defending Tony now and then. Like, "ah, he's a good guy, just a little weird," and whatnot. And it scored me no points, socially. But I felt something important. Tony was 12 and a spaz, and I was 12 as well with some spaz to me, and neither one of us knew at the time what we were supposed to be. Young men (the only experience I can speak to) spend an inordinate amount of time trying to figure that question out, "what AM I?" Hell, I'm 51 years old as I write this, and I'm not sure I've worked out that answer. His mom asked our coach if Tony could join our baseball team. She asked because she knew my mom, and I was on the team. Moms of weird kids notice potential friendships very very quickly. Coach tried him out and said no. The fuck am I supposed to do with that? I mean, we were all terribly untalented. So June 19, 1980, noonish. He skids into my driveway. Invites me to the beach. And I didn't just say no. I kinda without words said, "fuck off." Or that's how I see it in my mind. And he said 'Hanner and Schadler'... which for me was just a hard no. Older kids, trouble. Not good. And thus I was "busy." And he pedaled off. Perhaps a trivial exchange. There was whiffle ball to be played. The storm did in fact come. But with Lake Michigan, the Thing arrives well before you see the storm. It can often be sunny and warm with some building waves. That's the trick. That's why we watch the news. That's why, even as tots we're taught to respect the water. And that's why Tony was found 2 weeks later floating near a breakwater 12 miles north of the beach. What do I say about that? All of this, I guess. I still don't know, and I feel like I've done a poor job of it. Like, overdramatic, or something. Whatever. They say in writing classes, don't tell, show... I say fuck that. I'm telling. Those were not good days in my life. I learned more about life than I wanted to, like quickly. Some guys and I rode down to the beach that night as the news spread, when Tony was "missing." Jonathon, David, Kevin, Allen and I (remember to fake these names). Neighborhood kids. And there were lights on the beach, and rain, and they had boats dragging the shallows. But we knew he was already long gone from there. Later we sat on his mother's porch steps in the dark and told jokes. Tony jokes. Like a lot of them, spinning 'em up like improv. Remembering? We laughed. I mean like the hard laugh that hurts your guts. I'm still angry. Decades have passed. Still angry. At who? I don't know what any of this means. Or why I'm writing it down. Asking you to read it. His mom called mine again, just the one last time before they moved away. And for some reason I was invited to lift and carry the casket. I had to wear a church suit. Hanner and Schadler bore the pall as well, offensively, in my opinion to this day. And his younger brother. I guess regardless of their culpability, or mine, it was appropriate. Or something. It does not sit well. Any of it. So, list of attributes.. engineer brain again. I promised. Tony was a good person. So good it was not exactly in keeping with the way the world works. So good it was annoying. That kid could piss you off with his goodness, and he seemed to delight in doing so. Which pissed you off even more. He was scared. A lot. He told me that once, before he drowned and was swept away. We were in my living room together, watching MTV. Still alive, he said, "I think people don't like me." He couldn't throw, catch or hit a baseball. That's just fact. I saw that as fast as coach did. He was careful. He took care of his fish by the book, he took care of his neighbors' lawns and he was maybe ironically over-concerned with safety. Watching him prep a mower was to see an artist at work. He could pedal. He was just so weird. He loved that bike. I don't think I mentioned this earlier. He rode a tandem. An old, really long 2 seater bike. By himself. All over town. Bookstore, library, Columbia Aquariums. There'd be Tony with his long bike. To my house, skidding into my driveway on the day. Tony rock 'n' rolled on that bike. He often oiled the double chain. Sometimes, even now, while I try not to think too closely about the other thing where he... died, I wonder what he musta felt like riding that bike all day. I rode it once myself, and it had a satisfying momentum. And I have an idea. I almost think I get it. It might have felt like a big truck on a big road going really fast to some place none of us could see or didn't want to Obviously he never got the chance to figure it all out either. But it was a really cool bike, in its way. Despite year after year of thinking and dreaming about it, I still sometimes wonder what was riding in that empty back seat.