“Hey Ho let’s go.”
I can’t remember when the photograph was taken. At the time it wasn’t significant. I don’t recognise the buildings behind him. No matter. Andy is always with me. In the photograph he’s wearing a black and white striped shirt, punching the air above him in the Hey Ho, Let’s Go pose made famous by The Ramones. Even though it was tres uncool among our contemporaries, Andy and me, man we were acolytes! Had a tribute band – The Sematary Pets – which was going some as neither of us could play an instrument, nor hold a note.
I turn the key in the ignition and the engine splutters, lurching the wheels forward into another day. Two vapor trails in a clear blue sky beckoning me to follow them. But I have a job to do. A job I’ve been telling myself to jack in, for… how long would that be Andy? He’s smiling, knows the answer.
I hate the phrase ‘brother from another mother’. I heard George Dubya Bush using it once when he was doing his regular Joe down home shtick. Yuk. Andy, though I was a year older, was the big brother I never had. He had this saintly glow about him. Made ordinary, I guess, with steadiness. Everyone agreed, he was a… A friend for life.
It’s gonna be a hot one the weather report said. Not yet 9am and I’m feeling sticky from the peak of my cap down. I pull onto the forecourt of the gaudily painted burger joint. The bald-headed guy with the dragon tattoo on his neck is hopping from foot to foot, agitated in the pitiless sun. He’s the manager at Papa Chow. Business isn’t so good right now.
“The rats are the size of… having babies all over the place.”
“I’ll get to that, Bud.”
“How long this take, man?”
Now, here’s a question I’m often asked and always swerve. I take a moment, look toward the clear blue sky, “Whaddaya say, big brother?”
“Who you talkin’ at? How long it take, man?”
Hey Ho, another day. You’re always with me, Andy.