Several years ago my kid brother was killed in a motorcycle accident. And before some well-meaning person with sociopathic leanings brings it up, he was wearing a helmet on the night of his accident. It flew off his head, crossed three lanes of traffic, and took out the windshield of a Beemer. Which my brother would have greatly appreciated and would have gotten a good laugh from. Except the dead are not known for chuckling.

Unlike with some, death is not a regular feature on this blog. But this death has a bearing on the rest of this story so as morbid of a subject as it is for an opener, you’ll have to live with it. His death occurred at this time of the year, a week before his 40th birthday. It’s difficult not to think of him right now, with both the beginning and end of his life marked by dates so close together. But then I think of him often anyway, throughout the year, which is really a bitch because that means reminding myself yet again that he is gone. We were close, but didn’t live in each others back pocket. We shared few interests, but did share the same sense of humor. And we both love/loved to read which is my biggest problem because when I run across a good book or a new author I know he’d enjoy my first thought is still that I need to pass that book on to him. And then realize I can’t.

His memorial service was a grand affair; just short of 2,000 people showed up to pay their respects. He was that kind of a guy. He had very few acquaintances. To him, everyone was a friend. And he treated them all accordingly. When people began taking their turn on stage to tell a story about what he had meant to them I think many were surprised hearing about what they had thought was something that the two of them alone had shared. His wife probably wished some of those stories had been told in private instead

Funerals suck. Everyone feels the obligation to express their condolences to the family. But as many deaths as our society has experienced over the centuries, we’re still clueless about how to go about doing that. So let me give you a tip. Your being there says enough. A sad smile, a handshake, a pat on the back, or a quick hug fleshes out anything you thought you needed to share. Passing along some tired cliche about how the pain will lessen with time, or that one day you’ll only remember the good things is bullshit. I don’t think you ever get over the pain of loss. I haven’t. Nor do I want to. Because that is part of our relationship too. As for remembering only the good things, well, the bad times were just as much a part of our time together and I don’t care to forget those either. Besides, those were the times, years after they’d occurred, that we both took great delight in razzing each other about.

Some bitch I’d never met before took her turn at the microphone blubbering her fat ass off until she got herself under enough control to say she thought he was a good person but had never seen him in church and was afraid he’d not accepted Jesus Christ as his lord and savior while he had the time. Yup. That’s what organized religion will do for you. I guess it must be nice to be so self-righteous that you can tell a room full of people mourning the loss of a loved one that, from where you are standing, the bad news is it looks like he’s going to hell. So there’s another tip for you: keep your religious beliefs to yourself. And consider going on a diet before all of your friends and family gather to mourn you passing too soon too.

Or maybe not soon enough.

While I’m thinking about it, falling back on the cliche ‘the good always die too soon’ is probably not the most comforting thought to share with an older brother of the recently departed either. It’s a judgemental phrase, even if not intended to be, and even if you are probably right. I’m going to include in my will strict instructions that everyone attending my funeral service has to stick a piece of duct tape over their mouth. But being the fair guy that I am, my corpse will sport a piece of tape over its mouth too. That will probably qualify as one of the ‘good times’ that people will remember when thinking back over my life.

Noom, my bar boy friend and current love of my life, and I were just a year or so into our relationship when my brother died. His death had a major impact on our relationship, in several unexpected ways. Almost all stemming from my mom’s turn at stupidity at my brother’s funeral. Gathering her remaining sons together, she asked that we each promise to never get on a motorcycle again as long as we lived. Because she wanted us to live a bit longer. She could have as easily gone with never go out at night, never get off the freeway at the exit where his accident occurred, always spend the night at your mistress’ house rather than heading back home to your wife in the wee hours of the morning, but the cause and effect in her mind was the Harley, so we all took a solemn vow to give her comfort while wondering just what we were supposed to do with our bikes now.

When you spend a good amount of time in Bangkok, or anywhere in Thailand for that matter, having a life rule that prohibits you from getting on a motorcycle is not necessarily a bad thing. But can complicate matters when your still new to the relationship bar boy friend asks to borrow 15,000 baht so he can buy a motocy. Even if it really is more of a scooter. But the motocy part of the transaction wasn’t what interested me, the ‘borrow’ part was. Having been raised on the gay Thailand message boards where every bar boy is a money grubbing whore and every farang a walking ATM. I figured I was about to either have my knowledge from those who’d come before me affirmed, or my budding relationship blessed. Without allowing Noom to get too carried away with the long list of reasons he’d prepared for needing a bike, I ‘loaned’ him the money, never expecting to see it again.

The first night on my next trip to Bangkok several months later, Noom met me at his bar, gave me a big hug, and handed over an envelope stuffed with baht. Huh. The loan really had been a loan. And as much as I’d like to have thanked him and handed the money right back, Noom too knows the rep bar boys have and wanted to show me that was not what our relationship was about. He’d needed some help, not a freebee. He gave me the opportunity to take care of him, and I’d responded as he’d hoped. He also saw his new transpo as a benefit to both of us. No reason to waste money on a taxi, we could take his bike back to my hotel from now on instead.

He sprung that bit of good fortune on me after asking me to wait when we left his bar. A few minutes later he pulled up on his new (used) motocy with a face-wide grin showing off his pride of ownership. He was so proud of himself and the upward direction his life was taking I couldn’t even make a joke about the bike being pink. But when he gestured for me to hop on, a different passenger stepped forward.

“Can not.”

“Why? I good driver.”

So I explained about my dead brother and the promise made to moms.

“You sa-cared. It okay, I go slow.”

Bastard. He was calling me a pussy. And I’d just refrained from talking badly about his gay bike. So I explained again with as much seriousness as possible so that he’d understand.

Yes, bar boys have a bad rep with farang. Farang rep isn’t much better among bar boys. So used to being lied to, Noom assumed my story, on the first telling, was a lie. As farang in his world do, he thought that I’d used a made up story about a dead sibling to avoid doing something I didn’t want to do. When he realized the story was true, his attitude changed. But at first, not much for the better.

“Why you not tell me?”

“Um . . .”

“Our brudda die and you not tell me!?”

I’m not sure if it was his sorrow over hearing of the death, or that I’d failed to share it with him that caused the tears. Possibly a little of both. I was still feeling my way through the mine field a relationship with a bar boy can be. The whole situation was still new to me. Noom had already committed to it wholeheartedly. In his mind my family was now his family. And not telling a brother about the death of another brother is a pretty low thing to do.

I’m a manly man. And manly men don’t cry (they are not supposed to have sex with other men either, but then no one is perfect). On the night my brother died, as soon as the police came to my house I had to be strong, rushing over to his house to handle matters for his wife and to help his sons try to understand what had just happened to their world. As friends and family flew in from across the country I had to be strong for them too, including providing the support both my parents needed to deal with the loss of their child. By the time of his memorial service I was playing the role of host, offering comfort to all of his friends while trying not to punch out that fat blubbering Jesus freak. There were tons of details to attend to, none of which allowed time for me to grieve. And then, several months later, and 8,000 miles away, the tears of a bar boy who’d never even met my brother did me in.

Maybe it is the difference between how Buddhists and Christian view death. I know it wasn’t Noom’s limited English vocabulary because he can be quite eloquent when he feels the need. But he didn’t offer any stupid platitudes, instead he offered his comforting arms. And shared in my sorrow, embracing it as his own.

Sympathy sex, by the way, even when it is over the death of a loved one, is a glorious thing.

The next morning we had to visit a temple ‘for Brudda.’ Noom took over and handled the details and other than the long talk he had with his god, I couldn’t tell you the why for the whats, if it was a standard Buddhist ceremony or was something Noom made up as he went along. I do know that if according to the evangelical Christians he was headed for hell, Noom made sure that for the Buddhist version of his after-life or next-life our brother was well taken care of.

Noom now considers himself to be my nephews’ uncle, asks about them often and usually has some small gift for me to take back to them when I visit Thailand. I’d jokingly once told my brother that if his eldest boy hadn’t gotten laid by the time he hit 18, I would be taking him to Bangkok to lose his virginity. It became a running gag. That really wasn’t. He’s a nerd. And a gamer. And left to his own devices wouldn’t get laid until he is well into his thirties. So he’s looking forward to his trip to Thailand next year to score some pussy. My brother’s only comment once was that I needed to make sure he played safe. And no ladyboys. Unless that’s what he wanted and then my brother didn’t want to know about it. Noom has his deflowering all planned out and has been trying to use the Thai birthday schedule, which makes you a year older than you are, to move up the date sooner.

I did finally get around to cracking jokes about Noom’s gay bike. He’s too proud of it to care. Or has just grown used to my company enough to ignore me when it’s the best option. Last year I decided a motorcycle and a motocy really aren’t the same thing, and promises given aside, took my first ride on Noom’s bitch seat. He drives like an old lady. But I wrapped my arms tightly around his waist like we were doing 100 anyway. Because you are allowed to do that when you are brothers. Even if only one of you is gay.

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