I didn’t believe it when I heard. My son told me. He’s always on that Facebook and he called me to say he saw that Benny died, said his daughter posted “RIP Daddy” or some strange shit like that.
Look, I didn’t believe it because Benny should have died at least 30 times in 40 different ways since back when we were kids on the south side. Overdosed on anything he could find, shot once, stabbed twice, been in at least three car accidents - and I mean bad ones. He even got cancer and beat it. Even started smoking and drinking again. Nothing ever got him. Why would it now?
My son, though, he was pretty insistent. I don’t have a Facebook, so I couldn’t check for myself. So I gave Benny a call. His brother, Joey, answered the phone and said, “I guess you heard Benny’s gone.”
I have to admit I felt a little something drop in my chest. It was just something I never thought would happen. I knew him for 65 goddamn years and I thought he’d outlive every one of us.
“Yeah, I guess I did hear,” I said.
“But you didn’t hear how,” Joey said. “Benny ate his gun”
Joey told me Benny’s cancer came back and he didn’t want to deal with all the treatment and couldn’t afford it if he did.
He called the police just before he pulled the trigger, to let them know where to find his body, said he didn’t want one of his kids coming over to the house to find their dad’s head all over the wall. Let the cops deal with that part. And that’s what he did.
As soon as he hung up on 911, he put the gun in his mouth and called it a day.
Me and Benny hadn’t seen much of each other over the last 20 years, ever since I moved down south. But I still popped in whenever I went back home. I last saw him about a year ago. He was always doing the same thing: nothing. The man never held down a job and always found a way to do nothing. I could never understand how or why he was that way. It was just who he was. But if I’m being honest, I liked it only because I always knew where to find him and he always had the time - to talk, to drink, go to a titty bar, you name it. There was nobody else I could count on to always just be there. That’s how he was for the whole 65 goddamn years I knew him. And now he wasn’t.
I had to go for a walk, get some air. As soon as I got outside I regretted it. I never did get used to this Texas heat. Like a furnace. That’s what Benny would say whenever I invited him down here. He’d say, “Hotter than a furnace down there!” even though he never been to Texas and they don’t have furnaces down here.
Only time he ever left home was when he got drafted for Nam. But Uncle Sam knew Benny was a fuck-up right away and they didn’t even pass him for boot camp. This was when if you knew how to hold your dick when you piss, they’d give you a gun and ship you out to the other side of the world to get shot at. But not Benny. He snuck some dope into boot camp and lit one up in the head, butt-ass naked. For that, he got two months in the brig and a ticket back home instead of being sent to Nam.
Yup, Benny always found a way to avoid death.
I was covered in sweat and needed a drink. This damn heat. Closest place that served booze was an Applebee’s. Not much for atmosphere, but the drinks are cold. I went in and ordered a shot and a beer - what Benny always did. He always got Wild Turkey and a Genesee. But they don’t have Genesee down here, so I got a Wild Turkey and a Miller.
When we were kids back in high school, we’d go to a tavern a few blocks away from our street because they’d serve us and none of our parents were likely to walk in, not that they’d care much, especially Benny’s parents, his old man would probably be too drunk to recognize him. But we went down there anyways. And one night, Benny got so drunk, he started howling like a wolf. Just like a goddamn wolf. He got up on the bar and said, “Howuuuuuuuuu!”
The barman pulled him down and told him to get the hell out of there. And what does Benny do? He grabs a bottle of Wild Turkey off the shelf and runs out of there, howling the whole damn way. I chase after him and see him running down the street, bottle in hand, howling as loud as can be. He turned the corner and I could still hear him howling. I looked up and saw it was a full moon. That made me chuckle. Benny the Werewolf.
I was halfway done with my Miller and I already felt the alcohol seeping into my brain. It was the Wild Turkey, but the beer wasn’t helping matters. I couldn’t drink like I used to. I ordered a water. And because I had Benny on my mind, I thought about something I hadn’t thought about in years. The most horrible thing.
I’ll never forget Benny’s face that day. So much grief hanging off his face, I thought his skin would just fall off. And his cries. So heavy you had to hug him, so you wouldn’t fall down from the weight.
His 5-year-old son drowned in the bathtub on the day he was supposed to get his first communion. Kenny. Benny’s first. They let the kid do the whole bath thing by himself. He was a big boy now and all that, first communion. And to be honest, I never asked Benny for all the details. After seeing that face, I just couldn’t. And I know he didn’t ever want to hear those words coming out of his own mouth. But I heard. The kid slipped, hit his head, and fell in the water. Benny didn’t hear. His old lady didn’t hear. It was a small apartment, so there were questions about why they didn’t hear or check in on him. Rumors about them being too high. There was an investigation. Police cleared them. Whatever happened, I know Benny didn’t do anything on purpose and I know living with that wrecked him inside. That’s when he got deep into the hard stuff - the overdoses, the car wrecks. Trying to kill himself to be with his son and failing every time.
Ten years ago, I dropped in after I heard he was in remission for that lung cancer - a miracle considering this man smoked like a chimney on fire.
“Maybe God wants me to suffer longer,” he told me one night halfway into a bottle of Wild Turkey with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He wasn’t talking about Kenny specifically. He was laughing about all the car wrecks and overdoses and now, beating cancer. But for some reason, I thought about Kenny. I think that’s what he was talking about. Kenny in that bathtub.
I finished my lukewarm Miller and said, “Well, buddy, I guess you’re not suffering now.”
“What did you say?” the Applebee’s barman said - one of those young types who only gives you drinks and the check.
“Let me get another shot of Wild Turkey,” I said.
What the hell, why not?
The Applebee’s bartender gave me the shot and a check, even though I didn’t ask for it.
I laid down some cash and took the shot.
For Benny. No longer suffering. He finally got out of there.
Same with my dad. From the Bronx. Used to call hot women, “broads”.
“…I always knew where to find him and he always had the time - to talk, to drink, go to a titty bar, you name it.”
“Titty bar” cause Benny was from a simpler time