Here are the Young Men

Again, with the music references. This one from Joy Division, a band I loved, the album portrait looming over many a college bedroom of mine in one of those giant posters that took up half a wall. My friend Bran Harvey would have highlighted this album in one of his famous Facebook rants: “why 1982 kicked your ass” and then a link to a song. (Most probably: Love Will Tear Us Apart.)  That’s how it feels right now; it’s taken me a month to sit down and write about him.

I called an old friend, one I hadn’t talked to in ages, after hearing Bran was gone. At one point we’d both been in his gang of inseparable friends. Fucking cancer. It gets so many of us. Still. It brought me to this phone call, to reach old to a friend I never should have let go.

            “Why does it hurt so much?” I said. “Still, after all these years?” I hadn’t talked to Bran in ages, years, our small facebook communications mostly about music. Oh yeah, and my assertations that he should go and kick cancer’s ass to the curb already. In my mind, that was the only outcome. I had no doubts he would somehow beat it. I realize now, that was a luxury thought, afforded to me by distance. His wife Lisa knew. His girls. His close friends. None of which I got to meet in the later half of his life. They knew how this was going to go down. And my heart breaks for them because Bran was one of the truly special people of this world. My denial that cancer would take him was just wishful thinking. Sure, he gave updates, he was hopeful about new treatments. But near the end: radio silence. He spared us what was coming, ducked out before the last song. I envision him opening the door of O’Cays Corral, the smoke billowing out into the night sky, telling us he’ll be right back, that he just needs a little air, as he heads down to the lake to contemplate the universe, to watch carp copulating in the dark near the water’s edge.

 As an old acquaintance pointed out, Bran often introduced himself with a “Hi, I’m Bran,” followed by a sly smile, a shrug, and “my parents were hippies” by way of explanation. Bran was not, per say, a hippie, even though he espoused many a hippie ideal about love and how to treat people. And we did tease him mercilessly after he showed us his co-op ID, long blond hair reaching his shoulders. The co-op wasn’t for him, all that…granola. The hair went. And Rock and Roll was crucial, at all times. There were soundtracks to Bran’s years and mix tapes and band gigs and we were somehow lucky enough to be rolled up in all of that, lucky enough to see him onstage, givn‘r. One of his many apartments had an eight-track hooked up in the bathroom. That, folks, is dedication to music.

 So why again does it hurt so much? Why after weeks since his death, do I spontaneously burst into tears? Why, even though I’ve pulled out all the pictures and found the best ones, am I still unable to share them with anyone? I think it has to do with youth, with hopefulness and looking forward. With pictures of us dancing and drinking beer and laughing so hard our faces hurt. Something to do with his sardonic smile and ever-present personality. Something to do with we never had to worry about what we were doing that night, playing out our own version of “Cheers.” Sure, there was drama. We were young. But we were each other’s chosen family in the absence of our own. (It’s hard to look back at the pictures, to look back at yourself looking forward).

Over twenty years ago, close to twenty-five even, Bran left a bright blue sweatshirt at my house, one from the University of California, Berkeley. He said he’d drop by and get it, at some point. I forgot about it. It went under the pile in the back of the closet. It got moved to the next house in a garbage bag with the other clothes. It sat in a drawer. It got moved again and again (I have t-shirts from the ’90s, so this is not unusual for me) It got moved to another city. It started to turn up in the regular rotation because it reminded me of home, of my good friends. It got moved to London England, and I thought, I should really just send this sweatshirt to him in the mail, wouldn’t that be a great surprise? Or would it? It was all beat up, frayed at the sleeves. I was sure he didn’t remember it or had forgotten about it. Years passed. Kids grew. I could never bring myself to put it in the Salvation Army bag. Instead, I decided it was an essential piece of clothing. It was the only piece of Bran I had left besides memories and pictures, a part of him when he was young and hungry for knowledge and finding out how he was going to change the world for the better, and where he could turn the volume all the way up. The sweatshirt became something of a talisman. If I put it on, I had access to most “Erin” possible, like a security blanket.

For a few days after Bran died I walked around in it, cried on it, picked at the fraying sleeve absentmindedly. I’d never get to see him again, despite the talks about having a reunion with the old gang. I felt some responsibility, as one of the ones who didn’t die, to be better at living. I felt this enormous amount of grief at the loss of the old, responsibility-free fun days with the people I loved and would have laid across the train tracks for, if it came to that. (Like I said, it was a dramatic time). And perhaps it takes the loss of an old friend to remind you to be better to the ones you do still have. To pick up and call the ones you miss. And if any of you are bothered by the sentimentality of all this, you can go and f yourself. Sorry, that came out wrong. I meant to say you’re fucking right it’s sentimental, emotional. Many people never get to have friends who help you grow into yourself, who put up with your shit, who have hearts like deep pockets with enough room for everybody. I’m lucky, I know, to have shared good times with Bran.

Why does it hurt so much? Because it’s Bran this time. Bran Harvey, worthy of a Wikipedia entrance with a few good lies in it. To his wife, to his girls, he will be missed. He was loved by so many, some of who you never got to meet. You want to know Bran? Try going to Spotify and looking for Joe Murphy’s excellent tribute: “Bran Freakin Harvey”. I know Bran won’t mind me blathering on about him, wherever he is now. He’s probably just pissed now that he knows where that sweatshirt went, all those years ago.

And after this stupid pandemic is over, maybe July 2021, Tierney Park? All you Hideaway fools: you know who you are. Let’s raise a whiskey skyward: it’s time for that reunion.