Two Little Boys

In 1902, two men by the names of Theodore Morse and Edward Madden wrote a song, that on its surface was a tale of two boys that grew up together, and then eventually went off to war together. The name of the song, oddly enough, was "Two Little Boys". It became a popular music hall song in the early 20th century, and finally in 1969, became a hit song in Britain, hitting number one. 

  Two little boys had two little toys 

Each had a wooden horse 

Gaily they played each summer's day 

Warriors both of course 

One little chap then had a mishap 

Broke off his horse's head 

Wept for his toy then cried with joy 

As his young playmate said 

Did you think I would leave you crying 

When there's room on my horse for two 

Climb up here Jack and don't be crying 

I can go just as fast with two 

When we grow up we'll both be soldiers 

And our horses will not be toys 

And I wonder if we'll remember 

When we were two little boys

I first met Steve when he was 19 and I was 21.  We became fast friends-understanding that we shared a lot of similar traits, with just enough differences to make things amusing, and certainly not boring.  I could tell stories about antics we got up to for hours, but that's not the point.  The point is, for nigh on 37 years, he was the ying to my yang, I was the nut to his bolt.  You saw one, it generally wasn't too long before the other surfaced.

Mucking about in St. Louis, with our weekend excursions to the Dry Dock, obscure concert venues (Edgar Winter at Granny's Rocker was a classic), working at Record Bar, obtaining slightly illegal driver's licenses, mixing with any number of unusual characters, that would be unbelievable if presented as works of fiction, yet they were real life.  It was always amusing going out with Steve.  Like a moth to a flame, if there was somebody bizarre in a crowd, they ALWAYS found Steve, and invariably to my, and probably to a lesser extent, his delight, they would corner him, and regale him with some insane theory, story, or far fetched pack of lies.  

In early 1986, Steve found out he was going to be moving to Murfreesboro to complete his college degree in Record Industry Management (a degree, he quite rightly pointed out at the time was going to serve no real purpose, other than to say he had one), and I'm not ashamed to admit, that both myself, and several of the characters we ran with, were delighted to badger him about moving to mur-FREES-boro, you yee-haw.  This was all great fun, but then, as often happens, and not for the last time, life played silly buggers with us.   I interviewed for a job out of an office based in Memphis...assuming, that I was applying for a job in Memphis.  Not so fast...At the interview, they let me know that I'm the kind of guy they're looking for, but by the way..."your territory is going to be central Tennessee, and while Nashville is central, it's pretty pricey.  We recommend that you move to the little college town just south."  A place, predictably called, Murfreesboro.  So, after mercilessly teasing him about his destination, I'm happy to say he showed grace, and refrained from-oh who the hell am I kidding?  It was brutal.  Pounded me into the dirt over that one.  Relentless.  Reminded me in every conversation, that my dumb ass beat him there.  

And though we were certainly friends before that particular adventure, that was the glue.  Two yankee boys in hoo-haw Tennessee.  Again, not going to get bogged down in the tales of the two brave interlopers, but frankly, and this is no slander upon the fine folks of the area, but we just weren't very welcomed.  The famous southern hospitality, at least in Murfreesboro was intended for people passing through.  Not residents from the north.  With some folks, we may as well have declared ourselves officers in Sherman's army.  The southern Baptist welcoming committee (no lie), came to our door to ostensibly welcome us, but ended up being throw out for pretty much telling us we were going to hell for our failure to recognize how evil other 'so-called christian' religions were.  I'd like to tell you how appalled we were but it was hard to be appalled when you got drunk and broke into imitations of butthurt missionaries praying over your lost souls.

I could go on with tales of travels, from our self proclaimed "stupid adventures" to global destinations...from standing up at his weddings, getting his back while he struggled through his divorce, to him being a rock while I worked through both my parents descent into dementia driven madness.  It was a mutual two person support group.  And most of what was discussed, and fought through was no one's business but our own, and it will stay that way.

Years roared by, and then The Big C arrived.  It came to Steve's door first.  We all know the story, we all know the bravery he showed, the dignity with which he carried himself. I'd love to heap praise upon praise on him for this, but I won't.  Because it didn't surprise me at all. It was the Steve I knew.  Head on. Here's the problem, what are we, or is he going to do about it? He's going to face it as truthfully, and as honestly as he can.  Unblinking, no fear.  We'd talk about it, and death, and how best to accept, if need be, the inevitability of death.  This was done with a lot of humor, with a lot of laughter, and only rarely, a few tears, not for himself, but for anyone left behind, that wasn't ready.  Then came part two. My diagnosis. So (and pardon the French), both us fuckheads staring down the barrel of our own respective demises.   And, though far beyond what anyone had any right to expect, or think possible, there he was. At the doctor's appointments. At the hospital.  Staying at the house to make sure I could get from point A to B.  All while dealing with his own unfolding nightmare.  Oh, and did I mention he was managing all of this, while continuing to live life to the fullest, falling in love with his life's soulmate? 

In all the years we ran together, I'm not lying when I tell you there was NEVER a shouting match, or heartfelt "fuck you" between the two of us.  I mean, was he ever unhappy with some of my choices?  Sure, and vice versa.  But again-no anger.  Just talk it through, make sure it's understood.

A guy named Robert Wilonsky out of Dallas's Morning News made a statement I found myself in agreement with, shortly after I received my diagnosis.  And it was one Steve took to heart, as well. "you don't really survive cancer so much as you just try to outrun it."  He ran so hard, and did so very well.

Anyway, in March of this year, death finally played its trump card. And I guess here's the point of this whole rambling mess.  The final verse.

Long years had passed, war came so fast
Bravely they marched away
Cannon roared loud, and in the mad crowd
Wounded and dying lay
Up goes a shout, a horse dashes out
Out from the ranks so blue
Gallops away to where Joe lay
Then came a voice he knew

Did you think I would leave you dying
When there's room on my horse for two
Climb up here Joe Steve, we'll soon be flying
I can go just as fast with two
What did you say Joe Steve I'm all a-tremble
Perhaps it's the battle's noise
But I think it's that I remember
When we were two little boys

Steve, I just couldn't get you on my damned horse.  I'm so sorry, and I miss you and love you.  You were the best in all of us.