Brothers

When I was little, we’d stay close to a few members of my family while acting like others didn’t exist. It made me feel alone, especially in those moments when my folks were so wrapped up in their bullshit and my sister was too young to notice.

It made me seek elsewhere for comfort, attention, and love—all the things a little boy needs. It was a habit I had to break as I grew and became a husband.

I eventually learned you can choose your family. That loyalty doesn’t require blood-bonds. Love doesn’t require birthing. And, those who think they own you—whether blood or not—tend to hurt you the most. I’ve learned you can trust folks you don’t share a name with. And how some of those who do don’t deserve your time.

Most of my family are people others would call friends. The way others speak about their siblings is how I talk about my roller derby teammates. When people speak about how much they look up to their father, it reminds me of how much some musicians and writers shaped me.

There’s only been one person I’ve admired as a hero in my family: my Uncle Vinny. Not because he’s flawless, but because he is not. And because he was there, accepting and loving, when he didn’t have to be.

Most of my life I’ve feared most men who act like men. But not him.

When I was a boy, Vinny was tan, handsome, with chest hair billowing out, burying a golden cornicello. He drove muscle cars and brought home beautiful women. He drank a ton and smoked cigarettes.

He recently lost somebody really close to him—somebody who others might call a friend but he called brother. His name is Jim.

I knew Jim since I was little. He once gave me a Manatee County Sheriff’s hat that I wore for years.

For Vinny, Jim was somebody to look up to and talk shit with. He was somebody to be himself around, and we all know how rare that is in life. 

Jim was my uncle’s “Uncle Vinny.” 

For many years, I looked up to my uncle for how tough he was, how much he succeeded in covering up the insecurities he had with confidence, anger, and rebelliousness. 

As a grown man, I look up to him for his vulnerability and wisdom. 

Vinny stopped drinking. He escaped a toxic marriage and found the love of his life. He’s aware of his flaws and works to be better.

Everybody who loves Vinny should be grateful to Jim for his part in those tough times, helping my uncle make hard decisions, softening the blows when the decisions were wrong. He was always there, until now.

A day or two before Jim’s passing, my uncle and I were discussing death.

If you believe in God, mourning seems selfish. Vinny believes that when people die we mourn for the loss of the person and forget their new fortune. The person is called home to God, where they have no pain, where they dine with people they’ve lost. Vinny believes Jim had a reunion this week—one long-awaited and much earned.

We only show parts of ourselves to certain people. The people closest to us give us permission to be the best version of ourselves by allowing us to be our worst. I’ll never know who Vinny was with Jim, but I know it was a huge part of why he is the man he is. 

When Jim passed away unexpectedly, Vinny put his feelings into words. I felt his pain leech from the page, learned a few things, and laughed. Moreso, I was proud he chose writing to cope. There are far worse ways to deal with pain.

Jim died at 54. Vinny is listed as his brother in the obituary, as he should be.

The following is what Vinny had to say about his brother:

I sit on my patio this morning, like so many times before, wanting to call my best friend, to seek his advice. Only, this time he’s unable to answer. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because God called him home.

I sit and think of him and I remember the first time we met.

It was 1997 when I walked into a little pet shop in Tampa Bay Center to apply for a job. That day I met Jim.

I was seventeen. At that age the decisions we make—the people who enter our lives—shape us into who we become. 

When I first met Jim, I thought to myself, what an arrogant son of a bitch. Later, I realized how much alike we are. 

He introduced me to someone else who worked there. Her name was Gina. And the three of us became great friends. 

At the time, I wasn’t old enough to buy beer, but that wouldn’t stop the two of them from contributing to a minor. They snuck me into bars around Tampa, got me hammered to no end, then laughed their asses off at me. As my boss, Jim loved making me clean the kennels the next day, knowing I was hungover. Customers looking for the little puppy in the window instead found me puking into pine shavings. 

What great friends, right? 

Looking back at the two of them I can honestly say we acted like three siblings, seeing how much shit we could give each other without getting in trouble or landing in jail. 

After a few years, we moved on to get better-paying jobs. Jim followed his dream of becoming a cop. He was the only one of us who knew what he wanted. There was no stopping him. 

As friends do, we drifted apart. We still kept in touch from time-to-time. It wasn’t like it is today, with simple text messages to check. Back then, we had to pick up a phone and call each other. For a while, we rarely did.

As time went by, Jim and I both got married. We were each other’s best man. He served twice for me. We both had beautiful daughters and the headaches that come with them. 

I had three brothers, but they were much older than me and had families of their own by the time I was born. Not to say I didn’t love them, but I never had a brotherly connection with them. 

For over thirty years, Jim and I were family. And our families intertwined like a tapestry. He knew my father as his own, my ex-wife as a sister-in-law, and me as his brother. My daughter called him “Uncle Jim” and his baby girls call me uncle Vinny. 

He told me when we got older about his baby brother who’d passed away at the age of two. For years he was sad never knowing what it was like to have a brother—until he met me. I truly felt the same. 

We leaned on each other when we needed it and heard things we didn’t want to hear from one another if it helped.

We both got pissed at each other, but we never broke the bond we shared, as brothers do.

As for Gina, she’d fall off the map and disappear for a year or two, then pop back in to say hello. Then—like the snap of a finger—she’d be gone. 

I found out she had passed away from a horrible motorcycle accident. Being the officer Jim was, he needed to know what happened to our friend and looked it up. He shared the details with me. It was a sobering and sad day. 

For weeks after that, we spoke about our lives, our children, and our wives. How important they were to us—the things we would do for them. How precious life really is. Every day is a gift. We should treat it that way and never take a day for granted. Kiss the ones you love every day as if it is your last.

I remember having conversations with him. Me complaining about my sister. Him talking about his day. We vented about the stressors of life then I’d lean toward him and say, “do you know the difference between your family and your ass?” 

He’d give me that look that said OMG and say, “What?”

“You can pick your ass,” I’d continue, “but you can’t pick your family.” 

“I picked you!” he’d say. 

One smart ass comment deserves another. So I’d ask, “what are you looking for a kiss?” 

We would laugh just like we had always done a million times before.

Jim,

I’m writing this because I wasn’t there when you passed. I’m so sorry I didn’t get to say goodbye. 

I know you would tell me that I had no idea when the time would come and that, if I could, I would have been there.

You would give me a hug and tell me you loved me and that it was okay. And not to worry about your health anymore. You’d tell me that soon you’d be sitting next to our fathers at a great table full of food, telling stories we’ve heard a thousand times like it was the first. All of you would be looking down laughing at us saying, “there should be only tears of joy” and “we will all meet again in the house of God.”

Our friendship will live for generations.

I love you brother.

Your brother from another mother,

Vinny.

If this story compels you in any way, please give to St. Judes. In honor of Jim.