Day 11: Paul

The night had been a rough one: windy and loud, the van shaking side to side, every movement multiplied through the long levered legs of my scaffolding bedframe. Needless to say, I slept poorly, mostly in and out of consciousness, half-dreaming.

In the early AM I heard a thud after a whip of wind and I knew, I just knew, Shimmy had fallen off.

When I was able to pry myself from the bed several hours later, around 8:30, I confirmed my suspicion. One windy night in rural Idaho did what 861 miles of vehicular travel had not: remove Shimmy from his perch. There he was, a few feet away, in the shadow of the truck.

Oh Shimmy.

Don’t know if I’m ready to say goodbye. But it’s not up to me. Sure enough, I started to cry.

As I sat on the porch of my truck crying I realized that it wasn’t really about Shimmy, it was about my brother. You see, when I pulled in the night before I was a little taken aback by the sign that presented itself.

Obviously, I took this shot after the fact

My brother’s name was Paul. I’ve never come across a place named Paul, so stumbling upon it in the dark felt beyond the edge of coincidence. Of course, I followed the sign. And, fittingly, it led me to something quirky and darkly humorous, much like my late brother. Fellow artist. Fellow weirdo. Very missed.

And that’s what I got in touch with when Shimmy made his exit. I’ve had plenty of opportunities to grieve the loss of my big brother, but this time it felt like he was saying goodbye to me. Almost as if he was letting me know he’d carried me as far as he could and that it was up to me to keep going, to carry the torch, and to foster the next generation. Life’s seasons, the internal clock, the salmon, my nephew.

History doesn’t repeat, but it rhymes.

When I was six I got the best present a little kid can get, a new sibling. Though, instead of an infant I got a fully formed adult, with a motorcycle and a bull dog named Booger! Paul was 24 and more like a young uncle than a brother. He was an artist, a hairstylist, funny, cool and gay. I think he felt a little clueless about how to relate to children, but he did a pretty good job with me, though I probablly made it easy for him, he just had to show up and I was happy. He was supportive and encouraging of my artistic inclinations, and having him around helped me to follow these pursuits, I could see what he was doing and it demonstrated some of what was possible. He imagined all the things we’d do together once I was an adult, mostly exploring the art scene in NYC. But we never really got there.

My brother’s story is a tragic one. Why I only met him when I was six is a long and somber tale, and it’s not really mine to tell. We had a few good years, he moved in with us and I was elated. I loved having Paul around, I loved jumping on his back, sitting on his lap, and wrestling. He was a great storyteller. So animated. Fabulously snarky in the way that some gay men are. He would make faces that looked just like my mother and grandmother. Familial resemblance is interesting that way.

Paul was pretty heavy into drugs, something that only escalated as time went on. He became increasingly unbearable, selfish, and detached from reality. Then he disappeared for a few years. Lost in NYC. He re-emerged on the other end of a collect call. He was at the train station down the street and wanted to stay the night. I think I was 18 or so. I can’t remember how long it had been since I’d seen him last, but this was a different person. Familiar, but misshapen. Crazy. His gaze fixated on characters that were only there for him. He had enough self-awareness to keep a lid on it (for the most part), but it was still hard to see him this way. He was detoxing. We tried taking him to rehab the next day, but the withdrawal got the better of him. He shredded one of my pillowcases with his teeth on the car ride, demanding that we let him out. We left him at the facility's doorstep, knowing he wasn’t going in. You can lead a horse to water.

A few more years went by, no real contact. Then he showed up again, sober, but still crazy. Rehoboth Beach, Delaware. He was a survivor, yet very effective at burning everything to the ground. Whatever life he’d piece together out of thin air (from homeless to cushy beach living), he’d just as easily dismantle with self-sabotage. Decades of heavy drug use caught up with him, he’d fucked his immune system and his sanity. Multiple forms of rare cancer, schizophrenia, and a handful of other interconnected health issues. I didn’t get to be there when he passed, but thankfully my mom and sister were. We got to have some sweet moments in the midst of his decline. I’m so grateful I got to have some bonus time with him before his life ended.

During the months of building my own uhaul I had boundless, inexplicable energy and focus. I couldn’t help but feel like I was getting a big assist from the other side, from my spiritual tribe. There’s no doubt that Paul is a part of that team. But he’d helped as much as he could. Now it was my turn to show up and assist, to pay it forward.

I made Shimmy a little bed, found him a friend, left him some water and a note for anyone who might find him.

“Shimmy- Also answers to Shimbo. Take good care of him <3”

As I was leaving I reached into my pocket and found a curious little stowaway. A seedling, I think. Its resemblance to both Wilson and baby Groot was notable.

This was the heart of the message: it’s time to nurture the little seed, to give him love and foster his talents and growth. When you were six you got a precious gift, now there’s another six-year-old and it’s his turn to get a cool, older, quasi-parental figure who will show up with love and encouragement (and power tools). I might not have a bulldog or a motorcycle, but I’ve got a tiny home on wheels and a pedal-powered rocket launcher. History rhymes.

Of course, as I left Paul I had to stop and see the weird place in daylight. More light shed more weirdness. Now I could see that it stretched out quite a bit and was simultaneously even more dysfunctional and manicured than I’d seen the night before. Giant pits filling with rainwater, janky homemade slides, tennis courts, big meticulously mowed lawn. So bizarre.

I sat at the top of one of the slides and contemplated going down. Was it safe? Could I use my feet as brakes? Would hitting all the trash at the bottom suck? What if I used the many gallons of “liquid” in my truck to prime the slide? As I contemplated these things, I remembered the clown’s warning. But I don’t want to live in fear! Especially not from imaginary evil clowns (though it did have a point). I was at an impasse. I asked for a sign. Right then, my phone buzzed. It was a text from the government encouraging me to consider my healthcare options. Message received. I sent the carpet I’d dragged up there down in my stead. It definitely ran into the trash.

One fun discovery on my way down was that the steep slope with tall grass was easy enough to slide down on my butt. Less distance, much safer, instant laughs.

On my way out of the park, I got an official confirmation of the ambition for this space. I asked my cousin Mike about it. He said they’d been building it on and off for years, never open, just always under construction. Who can afford to have a theme park that is perpetually under construction and never takes in money? Maybe it’s a tax write-off. The tax codes are, apparently, full of weird exploitable loopholes. Or maybe this is their Ark, their Field of Dreams. Maybe their Mountain of Fun is really a mountain of debt.

I escaped from Kasota Park just in time, as I was leaving a blonde teenager came to weed-whack the whole quixotic affair. He shot me a suspicious look.

The drive to Idaho Falls was uneventful. I’d missed Twin Falls by about 30 miles and didn’t have any interest in doubling back. The car was (still) running normally and I wanted to make sure that I capitalized on any window of functionality it could offer. I was really looking forward to swimming in the Snake River, right where Evel Knievel fell in. Not because of that fact, it was just a pretty spot.

I arrived at my aunt and uncle’s at 2:25. My vehicle looks decidedly the most out of place in the suburbs.

Uncle Glenn took me around to a few shops, he was convinced that his mechanic would know. Cousin Mike totally called it “I bet he’s going to take you to see Kendall.” Mike was less sold on Kendall’s abilities than Glenn. Kendall told us he wouldn’t do diesels, but suggested a few places. They were booked at least a month out. No worries, there was always German Star. Or Salt Lake City.

This is Edgar, or Itty-Bitty Kitty as my aunt likes to call him. He is a very spoiled and adorable cat. Glenn would never admit it, but he’s kind of obsessed with Edgar.

That night Glenn made ribs. He noticed how much I ate and commented that my cousins could each eat three times as much. He was bragging, but also seemed a little disappointed in me for not even coming close. I’ve never understood eating a lot as a point of pride, it’s just so impractical. And inefficient. I actually wish I needed less food than I do- it’s cheaper and better for the environment. Fewer resources, less waste. I wonder if I could condition my body to need less. That would be amazing.

Anyhoo.

Hit the sack around 9:15. Stayed in their basement, it was wonderfully cave-like. My cousin Dan is responsible for the decorations. He and I have a similar aesthetic and interest in eccentric thrift store schlock.