"This One's For Friendship"

In 1984 Bruce Springsteen came out with a five album compilation of what he and the E Street Band’s considered their best music to that point. Several tracks were rearranged live versions of songs that had previously appeared on other albums. Contained within this box set was a live acoustic rendition of No Surrender, another of the Boss’ coming of age anthems of fonder days remembered. Before the first chord is struck Springsteen announces to the crowd that “This one’s for friendship.” That particular rendering remains one of my all time favorites.

Yesterday, after many years of dead ends consisting of fruitless inquiries, unreturned calls, wrong numbers, and other aspects of any wild goose chase, I struck paydirt. My annual Google search unearthed a dear friend I’ve been out of touch with for quite some time.

As usual, in the “search” box I inserted the name he used his whole life that did not correspond with the one that is printed on his birth certificate. After the requisite nano seconds, the first page of results appeared, and there about halfway down, I saw it; “K.C. Cary.”

That name may not mean anything to many of you who read this, but if your relationship with me is what you’d consider close; you’ve heard me mention his name more than once. That name has crossed my mind infinitely more times over the last fourteen years. 1996; that was the last time I saw him, at my mother’s funeral.

I was afraid he wouldn’t come since he’d been harder to get in touch with of than Jimmy Hoffa, as were his whereabouts equally shrouded in mystery. Even under such melancholy circumstances, I was delighted to spend the better of the day with him. Of my friends, K.C. along with Tom Rowlands had been my mother’s favorites.
For nine years of my life the three of us for all intents and purposes had been inseparable. In the summer of 1965 Tom and I moved to Chester, New Jersey. I am unsure when K.C. arrived, but I do know the Cary's pulled up stakes in Belvidere, while Tom and I came from Willingboro and Springfield respectively. That summer a bond was forged that’s been tested yet remains firm, but I can only speak for myself. If either of them disagrees, they can write their own fucking blog.

I met Tom first. Since both my parents worked, on most days my maternal grandparents were my primary caregivers. They lived a couple of miles away in a little “Melrose” development consisting of nineteen tract homes. Our family had purchased a house- I call it that because it was anything but a home- in a fledgling new development that at that time only had four other houses on the street. One afternoon while moping around my grandparents, a moving van made its way down to the last house on the cul-de-sac. My curiosity piqued, I bolted down the block to see a family unloading their belongings. Eschewing all the manners painstakingly taught to me throughout my young life, I entered the house unannounced and declared “Hi! I’m Wade your new neighbor and I have three holes in my head.” My behavior left little doubt in the minds of everyone present as to the ingenuous nature of my statement. Aside from the parental units, the four kids were all of “playmate” age; Tom happened to be about three months older than I.We spent weekdays of the remainder of that summer doing all things kid-like.

On the weekends my companion choices were limited due to the proximity of others my age. Peter Lorber, who would graduate the high school valedictorian, lived next door. Looking back, I probably should have spent more time cultivating that relationship, me being the anti-valedictorian and all.

The Simmons brothers Dwight, Bruce, and Scott, lived a stones throw (if you had a really good arm) from Peter. Since the only thing I had in common with them was that we all breathed the same air; I limited my time in the pleasure of their company.
Charlie Jeffers lived next door to the Simmons. Unbeknownst to either of us, our parents were engaged in some sort of bitter asinine chess match where Charlie and I were pawns.

The Drabs lived across the street from Charlie. The son Danny was my age, but again any commonality was nonexistent. That may have been due to Danny’s limited capacity. That, and he frequently made all sorts of horse noises which kinda freaked me out.

A little further down the street my playmate prayers were answered in the form of Warren Whiting. I spent a lot of time at his house every weekend until my grandfather heard about it at church one Sunday. You see my grandfather was a tremendous bigot, and Warren, well he happened to be black. My grandfather hard a stern talking to my mother about the company I kept. My visits to Warren’s were severely curtailed, but I still snuck there whenever I could. My first sign of a rebellious independence that later would cause my mother great angst. One afternoon while playing at Warren’s K.C. and I made our first acquaintance. It was a banner summer on the friend front.

For the most part it was easy to see how we all gravitated toward each other. Sure, geography played a certain role, but wait there’s more. Tom, K.C., and I all would be willing to play any sport all day long, or at least until the streetlights came on or a parent whistled. Football, baseball, basketball, and general roughhousing topped our activities list. We each had a certain amount of talent for each organized sport, Tom and K.C. of a greater degree. We all were relatively intelligent. And we all had a sense of humor that appealed to the other two. That was as good a foundation to build a lifelong friendship as any other I’ve heard of.

For the remainder of our school years we were often in the same class or classes. Our junior year Tom moved away to Ohio. After high school K.C. went off to Trenton State; I just went off. Tom graduated from Ohio University, K.C. from Trenton State after an elongated stay. I on the other hand, continued to sabotage whatever prospects I may have had. I’m sure this erratic behavior was at the root of my snubbing Tom’s nuptials that occurred right after he finished school. The awkwardness for me lingered for several years. However, K.C. and I picked up where we left off. He and a few other friends rented a shore house in Belmar. I went there every chance I got. By this time K.C. had taken up playing the guitar, poorly, but he had taken up nonetheless.

I won’t go into the sordid details of that summer’s debauchery; you can fill in the blanks. When summer concluded K.C. decided it was time for him to try his act out in public. He and Mike DeSaye formed “The Hot Damn Brothers.” For a lounge act, they were pretty good actually. I went to see them play whenever I could. One Christmas as a sign of my appreciation, and the respect I had for K.C. and his craft; I hired a bagpiper to play “Mull of Kintyre” along with them. There’s more to this story, but it’s in my book.

Along this time I was a serious student at HB Acting Studio in New York. Any time I got a part, K.C. would come support me. One good turn deserves another. Like any good starving actor, I waited tables; my place of employment, the Publick House in Chester. It just so happened The Hot Damn Brothers had a regular gig there. They played the Publick House the night of October 4, 1984. You may ask how do I know this. I know because after the gig had ended, and K.C. and I squeezed into his oversized Captain Lou Albano shirt, I left the Publick House but didn’t make it home. And when I did, it was sans one leg and casts on my other appendages.

K.C. came to visit me in the hospital religiously. He organized a benefit for, well, my benefit. After I started feeling better, I also started behaving worse. K.C. took a break from me, for his own sanity is my guess. Once I physically healed we got together now and again. However, now I was a Dad, I had responsibilities I needed to attend to. Tom and I headed in the opposite direction relationshipwise.

My father had retired, and moved from Salt Lake to a burgh just south of Columbus, Ohio. On my yearly visits out to see him, I always made it a point of getting together with Tom if it was feasible. During a 2001 trip, Tom and I discussed K.C. at great length, rehashing old memories and such. Tom informed me that K.C.’s son was quite an accomplished guitar in his own right. We decided we’d try to call K.C. while we were together. We both had made some futile attempts in the past. We thought that perhaps with the energy of the two of us focused on the same goal… Again, our efforts yielded nothing. We both vowed not to give up.

Tom and I call each other a few times a year. We’ve had the good fortune to see each other a few times since ’01 either here in Florida or up in Ohio. We exchange Christmas cards. Tom was even magnanimous enough to look after my son Cory on his trip to check out Ohio State University. Tom’s son Tommy allowed Cory to stay at his dorm one night. Tommy also served as Cory’s personal guide around campus.

Mike Marelli, another friend since I’ve been eight, at my request, found a number for K.C. a couple of years ago. A strange voice answered the phone and asked me not to call the number again. Back to square one. Thank goodness for the internet.

Last year’s search uncovered that K.C. had played at a Black Potato Music Festival in Flemington, New Jersey a couple of years earlier. This was the most concrete lead I’d had in awhile. I was happy to see he still had the creative juices flowing. This year maybe the stars truly are aligned.

Yesterday after speaking with Mike Marelli on the phone; I saw it as an omen to search for K.C. once again. I had made previous attempts to locate him on Facebook, but knowing K.C. as I think I still do; K.C. signing up for Facebook is about as likely as an agoraphobic criss-crossing the country campaigning for political office. I was relegated to my normal investigative Google search. Lo and behold, staring out at me from print below a YouTube posting was the name “K.C. Cary.”
I clicked on the link and watched the video with a fondness normally reserved for one rehashing old wedding tapes. I send a message to K.C.’s YouTube account, whether I get a response or not remains to be seen. Who the hell knows if he’d be as happy to hear from me as I would be to hear from him? Christ! After all this time I was beside myself just watching the video. Amid this gold rush my phone rings; it’s Tom Rowlands. No shit.

I tell Tom of my findings. He tells me of a party he’s planning for June. He tells me he’d be delighted if I could come. He tells me a friend of his Ellis Paul is playing at the party. I don’t know who that is. I’ll have to Google him when I get off the phone. Tom tells me how great it’d be if both K.C. and I could make it this party. I send Tom the link so he can check out K.C.’s video. After speaking with Tom, I Google “Ellis Paul.” I find out at one time he too played The Black Potato Music Fest. Yes Tom, by all accounts it would be fucking unbelievable to get all of us in the same room together. I sure hope K.C. reads this blog. I sent him the link. The song he sings on his video? Growin’ Up by Springsteen. Oh them stars!