Brent

In my time, although I have burned many bridges, I’ve been blessed to know great friends who helped me through some very bad times. One was Brent, a guy living in a group home with me and four other people.

Brent was a character. He had schizophrenia but it was somewhat controlled by medication and excellent support. He wore a fiddler cap with his long blonde hair cascading from beneath. His oversized wire rimmed glasses gave him a distinct look. But it was fitting for his character.

He was the only man that I ever met who got a ticket for running along the concrete median without a flashlight on a summer night on Ocean Highway in Ocean City.

He once lost his wallet. Had some roaches shoved down in the folds. He got a call from OCPD, letting him know that someone had found and turned it in. He was ballsy enough to go to the station to pick it up. And they gave it to him, with the MJ joints still inside. Knowing that, you’d think he was the luckiest bastard who ever lived.

Perhaps. Then again, I’m still on the fence about it.

One time he was collecting old bottles in a kid’s wagon. Not altogether that strange, really.

Unless, of course, you count the fact that he was wearing a ceremonial native American chief’s bonnet complete with the full feathers and everything.

And maybe that wasn’t really so bad either; if only he wasn’t walking on the shoulder of Interstate 70, a highway illegal for pedestrians to access.

A westbound State Police cruiser (going the opposite direction) had a trooper and a fresh cadet. One can imagine: “Damn, did you see that?”

and the answer: “Yeah, I saw it. Some days I hate this fuckin job.”

They had to take the next exit, come back and put Brent’s wagon in the trunk and drop him in a safer area.

And no. He wasn’t a kid then. He was in his late 20s.

Anyone with schizophrenia will have delusional stories. I got to know Brent well enough that I could sort most of them out. I won’t go into those because I simply don’t have any interest in making, or appearing to make, light of them.

Because he was such a kind soul and a devoted friend. He loaned me smokes when I was broke, money when I was out of meds, and he fed me when I was hungry. He gave me company when I was lonely and couldn’t sleep.

I’ll always remember the nights we sat on the porch, talking, listening to the radio and smoking cigarettes or cigars. Jimmy Buffet, Columbian coffee and Marlboros. And damn good company.

Brent once made the news. He was driving a straight truck. I never asked, but I rather doubt he had a license. The headline the next morning was “Man Goes On Rampage In City, Damages Parked Cars”.

He said he didn’t know how many cars he hit. But to get a headline like that? Oh, yeah. He fucked shit up.

Once he was pepper sprayed by the police but managed to get away. Face and eyes burning, he ran into someone’s back yard. There was a pond, you know, the kind for goldfish and frogs and Lilly pads. He was sloshing water on his face when the owner awoke and said he was calling the police. Brent lied and said a gang of kids had used Mace on him. The owner invited him inside, helped him flush his eyes, gave him a towel and a glass of wine and sent him on his way. Of course I believe that story. He’s the only one who could run from the police after being pepper sprayed and come out of it with a free glass of wine!

I loved my friend Brent. I guess he’s just one of those people you can’t help but love and therefore can never forget. Only a few times in our lives do we meet such extraordinary people. They’re a true blessing. Brent taught me patience and understanding. He let me see the rough edges of himself, and that was an honor.

Before you judge? You have to get to know someone.

Before you hate that which you do not understand? You have to gain understanding.

Otherwise you’re wrong.