OPINION: He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother

I was traveling with my older brother Randy and our mutual friend Vernon. Ahead of us was a diner I had often frequented during my college years called Alf’s Giant Burgers. I punted when I asked, “Hey you guys wanna stop and get a bite to eat before we turn around?”

“Sure,” they both replied.

We were driving Randy to a rehabilitation center called Springbrook, where we hoped to deliver him for treatment. En route, I missed the turn-off to the facility and found myself instead in McMinnville, Oregon, some 20 miles beyond our destination. Fortunately, McMinnville was familiar terrain to me, as I had lived there while attending college.

Alf’s was the classic drive-in but with a couple of unique twists — including Alf himself, who we were lucky enough to meet. I’d guess Alf was 60 or 65 years old and, according to his menu, had been making the same great burgers since 1965. Alf was dressed in butcher’s whites. On his head, he wore a little white paper hat with a baby blue racing stripe that ran the full circumference of his unusually large, round, hairless head — by far his most distinguishing feature. Other than the blue ribbon, the only item he was wearing that wasn’t white was a pair of black, plastic-rimmed glasses which, because of their size, could have been mistaken for a pair of safety goggles. As he stood taking our order, tiny beads of sweat collected in the deep pink pouches beneath his eyes.

The décor around the drive-in was neat and trim. Green indoor/outdoor carpet covered most of the outdoor dining area. Off to one side was a row of artificial green hedges, neatly manicured to resemble a small parade of animals. In the lead were several dancing monkeys, all holding each other by the tails. Next were two elephants that stood head to head with their green curling trunks raised to the sky. Bringing up the rear, a couple of hippos rested nonchalantly among a landscaped patch of rose-colored quartz pebbles. A pair of pink plastic flamingos stood guard outside each of the restrooms.

Inside, the floor was checkered with black and white tiles. A lot of 1950s and 1960s junk hung from the walls and rested on the countertops. At one end of the dining room and around a corner, I discovered a small area that I hadn’t seen from my previous vantage point.

Staring into this space for several seconds, I turned to my brother and said, “Well Randy, it looks like we’re here.”

“Huh? What do you mean we’re here? Where’s here?”

“Springbrook,” I said back to him. “You know, the place where we’re taking you to stay. It’s right over here. Come on over and check it out, they even got a couple of roommates for you.”

Randy and Vernon walked over and looked where I was pointing. On the other side of the room stood a Plexiglas wall and behind this wall, a cage, about 10 feet square. In the middle of this enclosure was a dried-out, stout-looking tree with severed limbs. A couple of jungle gym chains with monkey rings attached hung from the cage’s ceiling. Swinging wildly around between the leafless tree and metal-hooped rings were two coal-black, miniature-sized gorillas. One had on a green diaper, the other sported a red one. As we all stood staring at these poor creatures, they grew agitated and began bouncing off the bars of their pitiful cage.

As Randy gawked at the scene in front of us, I pressed the limits of good humor when I said, “Yeah, Rand, that’s how you’re going to be acting soon as you start going through withdrawal.”

Randy didn’t say anything back. He just watched the little gorillas quietly for a few more minutes, then shook his head at me and walked away.

My brother was many things, some of which were noble and others crass and salty, as befitting of a rebel and a sailor. Unfortunately, one of the things my brother was at this time in his life, was a meth addict of 20 years.

In 1992, I performed an intervention on his behalf. And reflecting back now, I’d say this was probably one of the most difficult things I have done in my entire life. But my actions saved his life. And as such, I was able to enjoy 17 years of sobriety with him until he passed away, while on a road trip in his classic old Ford truck en route to his Idaho getaway.

To this day, if I were in my brother’s shoes at that time, I honestly don’t know if I would have gone ahead and allowed myself to be committed.

But courage comes in many forms, as does humor. And as such, we oftentimes surprise even ourselves in the face of adversity about what we are capable of in our darkest hours.

I am reminded of the lyrics to a song by the Hollies. With one line in particular that stands out from a story told long ago.

“The road is long, with many a winding turn that leads us to who knows where, who knows where. But I’m strong. Strong enough to carry him. He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother. So on we go.”

So on I go.

Pete Garay lives in Homer Alaska with his wife and three children. His hobbies include fishing, gardening, writing and oil painting.

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