About a month ago, we got a phone call at night; Mrs. R answered it, and when she hung up, she started to cry. “Brian’s dead,” she said.
Brian was my nephew by marriage, Mrs. R’s sister’s son. He’d been driving his father’s MGB, and when he took way too long for a trip to the store, his dad set out after him, and found a whole mess of police cars gathered around a ravine. The MGB had rolled; Brian was sent to the local emergency hospital, but it was no good.
He was a good-looking kid; not a good student; kind of directionless with his life. He never had the fatherly guidance he needed; his genetic dad was dealing drugs; his mother left him, but the stepdad and Brian never quite clicked, and Brian moved out as soon as he could. Brian moved here and there; had a number of girlfriends, none serious enough to be long-term; worked as a cook at Denny’s. I had nothing in common with him at all. And, I confess, I used to think to myself, geez, I wish he could get focussed, find a nice girl, get a job with a future.
How condescending I was. And I owe him an apology. At the funeral, there must’ve been a hundred people. The guy I thought of a a ne’er-do-well had a enormous horde of people who loved him, respected him; cared enough to come to his service; spoke feelingly of how cheerful he was, how full of love, how he had made their lives brighter.
So here’s that apology. I apologize for any arrogance or condescension or smugness I felt toward you, Brian; you were a good man and I was a fool.