A.P. was the imaginary producer behind the imaginary music created by our imaginary air guitar band—the Frazier Thomas Band—by virtue that he was first among us to own a car. We were young, still only semi-responsible. Over the course of several years, we covered a lot of ground together, both literally and figuratively. These friendships have lasted a lifetime. At 10:30 this morning, the surviving band members will be gathering with others for the Covid-delayed celebration of A.P.’s life.
While his daughters always respectfully refer to their father as Alan, most folks I know just called him Al. I am not sure when or why I took to calling him “A.P.” Lee adopted my moniker for him as her own, occasionally called him Al, but never Alan.
I met A.P. during my senior year of high school. I had transferred to A.P.’s school about one quarter of the way through the school year. As a teenager, it could have been hard fitting into a new setting with so many established cliques, but, fortunately, I not only saw a few familiar faces from my old neighborhood but by nature am a gregarious creature. Also, back in the liberal sixties, school administrators made the process of socializing easier for us. Students enjoyed a large “free space” where, within reasonable limits, of course, we could practice “free love” concepts, enjoy loud music, even smoke cigarettes between classes. (Remember, back then male actors playing TV doctors smoked like chimneys on their rounds and could puff away in their office while delivering dramatic news to a TV patient or concerned TV family member.) It was here that I first began to get to know A.P. and my other core people. Outside of school these new connections spread and grew like fresh roots. Friendships flowered.
However, what struck me about A.P., even during the earliest stages of our burgeoning relationship, was that I could sense the old man who resided inside this young man’s body. A.P. was not a risk taker. He was a creature of habit, who needed a routine.
Some folks aspire to attend the best college, achieve a profession, perhaps even a career in the arts. In A.P.’s case it was always assumed he would go into his family’s successful and mundane business, rebuilding carburetors and selling the rebuilt carburetors and other auto parts. For decades, he dutifully arrived at the plant by 5:30 a.m. to open the doors. He would leave precisely at 11:30 a.m. to take a one-hour lunch. You could set a watch by it. When he left for lunch, A.P. frequented the same neighborhood lunch dives, ordered the same menu items, invariably ordered hot tea, sat in the same booths, and had favorite servers, who knew him by name. Wherever he entered, the cashiers, and servers greeted him. Even the short order cooks in the kitchen behind the counter would acknowledge him with a quick wave of the hand or nod of the head. A.P. was the definition of a “regular.”
The employees in the plant represented organized labor while A.P. represented ownership, but by nature he had more in common with them than the white shirts working in management. He thought it important to be the first to arrive in the morning. He also was the last person out the door, but I think he enjoyed the solitude of the plant after the workers were gone for the day. Sometimes we would stop by the plant to pick him up for an early dinner only to find him reading a newspaper in the front offices. Ordinarily, A.P. worked the sales counter and manned the phones. Utilizing several thick paper catalogues, he developed an encyclopedic knowledge of carburetors and other auto parts. A.P. continued to rely on these heavy, cumbersome catalogues long after the rest of world had shifted to computerized databases. However, he knew the operation of the business from top to bottom, down to the machine components of the factory’s assembly line.
As I say, A.P. had a blue-collar sensibility and a strong affinity with the working-class folks in the plant. A.P.’s brother, father, and uncle worked for the company, too, of course, but, unlike him, left no doubt that they were part of the ownership and managerial class. Outside of our core group, if you were to ask A.P. to identify his friends, he might name his auto mechanic, his barber, or a member of his bowling team.
A.P. was a widower, who had had little experience with women before getting married to Pat, who died young from cancer. His last girlfriend, indeed, the only one I can ever recall, was a woman who had worked briefly in A.P.’s plant on the assembly line. For years, he cared for her, even helped to support this woman’s two ne’er do well adult sons. Despite his kindness, she turned cruel. To me, their relationship appeared one-sided and borderline abusive, and I said so to A.P.
This was not merely my isolated opinion. On occasion, other members of the band also tried to convince A.P. to sever ties. We eventually did manage to wean him, I think, but he never completely cut his ties either with the woman or even the two boys. He remembered her in his will, leaving her a house he bought that gave her a stable living place. A.P. wasn’t dumb, just extremely loyal.
***
A.P. had been a serious bowler until rheumatoid arthritis eventually forced him to stop this activity. He bowled in several leagues that were full of other serious bowlers, some of whom, like A.P. himself, never traveled without multiple bowling balls for different lane conditions one might encounter. One of the places where A.P. bowled consisted of a small set of lanes with an adjoining bar and a large billiards parlor. The place was located up a wide flight of stairs, sitting directly above a 24-hour, corner greasy spoon where the faint sounds of falling pins penetrated the ceiling. Rumor has it that the billiards parlor was a featured location in Martin Scorsese’s 1985 film, The Color of Money.
One winter A.P. came to me with an odd request that I step in temporarily for one of his teammates. A.P. figured my assigned handicap would be so astronomical that his team could still compete in league play until he returned. He was right about the astronomical handicap, but I was such a poor bowler that in the end it made no difference.
It turned out, however, that following team play, bowlers competed individually in one final game for a large money pot. In my first week as a temporary member of A.P.’s team, I bowled the single best game of my life by a wide margin, which in combination with my astronomical handicap, meant that I walked off with the money. Initially I could hear the angry, sore loser blather that A.P. had brought me into the league as a ringer, a laughable and easily dismissed accusation as borne out by my increasingly dismal performances in the weeks to follow.
***
To this day I still am not sure about the precise cause of A.P.’s death, except I know that it was related to his arthritis. A.P. was taking powerful medication for the condition, which carried a small print label risk for developing certain types of cancer, so when he developed a blood cancer, we assumed there must be a connection. One thing led to another, including a splenectomy, a severely compromised immune system, and insider jokes among us that A.P. had become the “bubble boy,” a reference to a character on Seinfeld, his favorite television show. Unfortunately, it was no joke.
During his lengthy, months’ long recovery following his operation, we were encouraged that A.P. looked healthier, that he had increased vigor and that he said he was feeling much improved. Then, quite suddenly, he started to lose weight. He also lost his appetite. He would soon appear wan and jaundiced. He complained of feeling weak and fatigued. He felt unmotivated. Multiple short stints in the hospital followed, which temporarily seemed to restore him. He would explain that he just had needed an occasional tweak after the long medical ordeal. But eventually he was readmitted and not released. Day by day, during a final extended hospitalization, A.P. seemed to decline despite receiving constant medical attention. More than once, one of his daughters would call to inform us that A.P.’s doctors were sounding encouraging, predicting his gradual and steady improvement. But this good news inevitably turned grim. Eventually, responding to another call from the daughter, one morning everybody came together to say goodbye to A.P. And in short order, he was really gone.
***
A.P. was a gentle and simple soul. He gave everyone the benefit of the doubt. He never flaunted his wealth, which was substantial, but generously shared what he had with others. He could be quirky, but also salt of the Earth. He was my good friend. I still miss him dearly.
At today’s memorial, his two girls will invite people to recite their stories and anecdotes. I could tell the assembled a story or two, believe me. However, recently I have been thinking more about A.P. and Lee, who loved him.
And A.P doted on Lee. Whenever he came to visit us, I could see him brighten the moment he would lay eyes on her. He took to calling her “Beebs,” my own favored pet name for Lee. I think it was his way of letting Lee know the love and deep affection he felt for her. For her part, Lee made A.P. feel special, though she naturally had this effect on most everybody. They were very close. Now, thinking of them together brings a smile to my face and warms my heart a bit.
***
Yesterday was Lee’s birthday, kind of a sad day for me, filled with small tears and a heavier-than-usual heart. Today marks the day A.P. died. As much as I would like to believe there is some principle of cosmic symmetry at work here, I suspect the timing is mere coincidence. Who can say? They were two of my favorite people in the world, both gone but never out of mind.