Dad Daze: A cautionary tale of a best friend on his birthday and death day
I used to say that I was the Axl Rose of reunions until the once-reclusive Guns N’ Roses frontman buried the hatchet with his ex-bandmates for a never-ending reunion tour. A childhood friend pestered me about reuniting with old neighborhood pals from our upper-blue-collar Philadelphia neighborhood about a decade and a half ago. It took years, but I reluctantly agreed to look back after vowing to keep books closed. My friend Tom failed to connect with my close pal Porter. “He won’t get back with me,” Tom said. “You guys were best friends. I bet he’ll respond to you.”
I had two best friends. Porter was my cerebral, perennial top-10-in-class student. He and I would talk for hours about books we voluntarily read, played board games and fought over a particular orange glass at his house. My other best friend, Nake, was academically average and failed to have much order in his life. Perhaps it had something to do with Nake being the only person I knew whose parents swapped partners during the 1970s. Nake was lost in the shuffle when his abusive stepfather arrived from across the street. Nake’s given name was David, but I dubbed him Nake at age 4. Despite prodding for more than a half-century, I’ve never told him how I came up with the moniker.
Nake and Porter were opposites. Porter was the prototype of the “Family Ties” character Alex P. Keaton. At 8, Porter was transfixed watching the Watergate trial but was disrupted since Nake tried to kiss him when the House Judiciary Committee voted to recommend the first article of impeachment against President Nixon. I remained in touch with the quirky Nake throughout the years. However, I lost track of Porter aka Egghead Junior, Blinky and Puerto Rico, since he moved in a very different direction.
When Porter was a junior in high school, his father informed him that he would at worst become part of the ROTC once he entered college and at best enter West Point. Porter had to have a sport to his credit and joined the cross-country team, which resembled a moving white picket fence. He scored a letter from his congressman. Within months, Porter became a reluctant cadet.
It saved his miserly father college tuition. His dad had more money than he could spend, but he lost his only child. Porter, who fought in the Middle East as a lieutenant in Desert Storm, survived war, his plebe year, which was the last when severe hazing was allowed and loneliness. We remained friends throughout his experience at West Point. He told me how he didn’t eat much that first year since he had to carve up all meals for upperclassman. When his duties ended, the cafeteria bell would ring. His 6’1” frame was dramatically altered as he dropped from 160 to 120 pounds in four months.
We last spoke about a decade after he graduated from West Point. He reunited with his parents, who were on the periphery for years, during the early 1990s. Our parents’ neighborhood was declining at that time. Someone broke into his parents’ car and stole everything, and to add insult to thievery pilfered the steering wheel!
After the drab Ford Escort was repaired, Porter, who had considerable time on his hands, delivered a chilling message. “I’m going to sleep in the car for a week and hope someone breaks in. When they do, I’ll come up behind them and strangle them to death,” Porter said with a glint in his eye. “I can finally put these hands to use again.”
It was no joke. Fortunately, no one messed with the car. Not long after that, Porter asked if I would be up for robbing a bank. “The only stipulation is that Nake can’t be part of it,” Porter said. That was a joke, but who knows what was spinning in his bored mind. Our lives were very different, and, well, that was the last time we spoke. I tried to contact Porter for the reunion. But I was a little late. He died on his 45th birthday, which is exactly a decade ago. I always remember it, and if I forgot, it would come back to me since Ronald Reagan, who he idolized much like the aforementioned Alex P. Keaton, was shot on Porter’s birthday.
I missed the services since I was eight days late. Like me, his parents, who were older, passed on, and he was sibling-less. Porter never married. As a journalist, I was compelled to know the cause of death. When I called his company, I was transferred. “Hi, this is Porter, I can’t get to the phone.” I remember thinking, “I know you can’t get to the phone, but why can’t you get to the phone?”
While reading his obituary, it was evident that he remained a physical fitness addict. Porter, who was once Sen. Arlen Specter’s squash partner, was apparently in great shape. I knew of only one issue, and that was alcohol. He developed a huge drinking problem at 18 that suspended all his privileges as a plebe. To date, I’ve never imbibed with someone who had such a tolerance for alcohol.
During our college days, I recall hanging at a bar with him, and it was like a scene out of “Leaving Las Vegas” that was left on the cutting room floor. He would swill one drink after another in record time. He would always ask the bartender for two more drinks. I excused myself and passed out in the men’s room. Porter, who was an officer and a gentleman, would rescue me and my liver.
During his time at West Point and throughout his 20s, Porter confided in me about how he wanted a different life, but there was no way around his father’s wishes. I was reminded of Porter’s situation when I first experienced the compelling film “Dead Poet’s Society.” Spoiler alert: Stop reading now if you don’t want the film spoiled. Much like the film’s protagonist, Porter killed himself, but he did so in a long, drawn-out manner.
Porter is a cautionary tale. Never try to convince your children to embark on a life that they do not want. Parents who force their will on their children might succeed in the moment but could lose their sons or daughters. From what I understand, there is little that’s more painful. Porter was a good pal who, like Nake, was always up for a caper. One of my favorites with Porter was deciding to sneak into the Philadelphia Eagles NFC championship game against the dreaded Dallas Cowboys in January 1981.
“Do you have tickets?” Porter asked. “No,” I said. “Well, how are we going to get in?” Porter said. I didn’t know how, but I was confident that we could break in. While arriving midway through the first quarter during a bone-chilling afternoon in the single digits with a wind chill well below zero, we encountered a couple, who left due to the unrelenting agony of winter. They handed over their ticket stubs.
Eagles running back Wilbert Montgomery busted a long run as we approached the gates, and the guards left their posts to see what happened, and we walked through the unmanned turnstiles and enjoyed watching the Eagles finally slay the evil Cowboys. When I relive that experience, I wonder how many memories I’ve forgotten died with Porter. I recall hanging out with Porter as a teenager when we were discussing life and careers. “You know so much about baseball and music, but it’s too bad you can’t make a living at it,” Porter said.
Well, I covered a Major League Baseball beat for more than a decade and have written about music since the year that punk broke. Somehow, I figured it out. I also learned that it’s not about money. I would love to have enough money to never think about money, but I’m never going to be a slave to the almighty dollar. Maybe I’ll never have as much cash as Porter’s dad, but I was also not rotten to kids like he was throughout our childhood.
The stern, emaciated penny pincher would pick on our not-so-savvy friend: “Hey, Nake, look, two motorcycles are coming up the street. Why don’t you run between them?” he occasionally cracked during evenings. And he once asked Nake, ‘Who is buried in Grant’s tomb?” He laughed maniacally when 10-year-old Nake had no idea what the obvious answer was, and it was almost as sad as his son’s future.
It was so difficult for me to comprehend Porter’s father’s motives since my parents poured everything into me and supported me wholeheartedly even when I decided to take a vow of poverty by majoring in journalism. Porter is gone, but like Axl Rose, I’m going to organize my childhood reunion after dragging my feet for nearly two decades.
We’ll reminisce at some point this year, and it’ll be fun hearing stories that I’ve forgotten. Perhaps we’ll gather at what was dubbed the “Dead End,” which was where we would hang out after we played stickball and street hockey and look back at a time that no longer exists. In one way, it’ll remain the same since Porter’s dad often wouldn’t let him out to play anyway. Rest in peace, my fellow fan of Speed Racer, the Sixers and that orange glass that was always full during the days of our youth.