glorifying Bukowski and the death of a superhero…

Back of Bukowski shirt. Boca Raton, 2019.

Growing up my cousin was my best-friend. We were pretty inseparable. We were only a few months apart in age, and he lived close enough that enabled us to spend a lot of time together. During my parents divorce and the years following, almost every weekend with my cousin. His parents, my aunt and uncle, even during their turbulent times, stayed together. I always thought this was so cool that two humans could face relationship issues and work through them.

My aunt was extremely nurturing and loving. No matter how outcasted I felt, she made me feel special. When my youthful insecurities would flare up, she would always remind me that my creativity was my light. My uncle was a brute. A Romanian man that was raised in Israel, shot in combat and came to America to chase his own version of the American dream by heavily drinking, gambling a ton, starting numerous failed business’ and watching the Miami Dolphins. I dreamt that they were my parents at times and I was magnetized to their loving yet dysfunctional household.

My crazy uncle, as much as he loved my cousin, seemed to be more open with me. My cousin was a little softer and would tend to run to his mom and tell her everything whereas I was, to be honest, not a snitch. Always jolly, drunk and making crude jokes, my uncle and I grew a bizarre bond. For hours into the late evenings, we would sit on the back patio as I’d watch him consume liters of scotch, packs of cigarettes and reruns of Jim Cramer. This man was absoloutely insane and I loved every minute.

As time went on and everyone got older, I noticed a lot of people didn't see the gold in my uncle that I did. His drinking was out of hand, he notoriously was terrible with money, treated my aunt pretty bad and everyone seemed to steer clear of his antics. I never could. Every story he told me, I would envision him as a superhero. Traveling through space in his Lincoln Towncar, flicking cigarette ashes as his gold chains laid upon his exposed chest of thick hair. I learned so much from my uncle. How to be, how not to be, how to be confident, how to not let shit stop you and how to be selfish at times. He watched me have my first drink at 13 and laughed as I poured his scotch into my orange juice.

Years had past, I became so focused on myself that I tended to be a poor family member. I stopped reaching out to many as I ran from Florida and focused on my own life (something I am not necessarily proud of). I stopped hanging out on the back patio with my uncle and enjoying Friday dinners with my aunt. Phone calls became less and less frequent and life updates began to disappear. When my cousin moved away for college, my aunt and uncle’s relationship seemed to crumble. Maybe he was the glue keeping them together.

As the glue evaporated, the truth of my uncle spending all the families money came to light. Their home was foreclosed on, debt was pilled so high they couldn’t breathe and like a coward, my uncle left my aunt to fend for herself as he fled back to Israel. All the family members expressed their hatred for him. I did too. I was disgusted, but not surprised. I moved to LA and he was across the world. I assumed he was probably up to no good and we completely lost touch, but I thought of him everyday. I still do.

In Los Angeles, I discovered Charles Bukowski. As I consumed as muc of his work I could, he seemed to fill a void my uncle had left wide open. I felt like as I read his stories and poetry, I began to understand my uncle my uncle a little better. Not realizing at the time, but in hindsight, I see it so clear. Like Bukowski, my uncle was weak. A victim of his own vices. And I empathetically loved them both. Feeling as if they were tormented beyond control, I saw the two men as having big hearts that swam within the cheap booze that filled their bodies.

Fast forward a year or so, my wife and I discovered we were pregnant with our first child. We left LA to permanently return to our hometown in Florida. One day, we were walking into an Office Depot. My wife was wearing my favorite shirt that I bought her off ebay. The shirt has a portrait of Bukowski on the front and a trashy quote pasted on the back. I stopped her in the afternoon sunlight as the shirt called to me more today than ever. Posing her on the wall, I raised my Leica up and snapped two images. As I advanced the film, I felt my phone vibrate. Incoming call from my aunt.

Front of Bukowski shirt. Boca Raton, 2019.

Receiving a phone call from my aunt was not totally unexpected. We would catch up every now and again over the phone where she would continue to tell me how special I was as we discussed times from the past. I quickly answered the phone excited to hear her tender voice. But once I picked the phone up, I could immediately tell by the tears in her tone, that something was wrong. She told me my uncle had become very ill and it appeared as if his days were numbered. As a wave of emotion came over me, I tried to maintain a “hard-ass” demeanor and act like I was still terribly upset with my uncle regardless of being told his years of hard-living caught up to him.

She urged that I fly to Israel and visit him to say my goodbyes. Fuck that I thought. First off, this man left my beautiful aunt alone at a time in life where she needed someone the most. Secondly, he hadn’t reached out to me at all, so why would I even try? I still saw this man as the invincible, gold-chain wearing, Marlboro smoking superhero I looked up to throughout childhood, but my anger could not wrap around the idea of see him dying in a hospital bed. Stupidly, I thought my superhero could not die. There was no kryptonite powerful enough to weaken him.

My uncle died maybe 10 days later. I never booked those plane tickets to visit him. I didn’t go support my cousin in this terrible time and I never even called him once during those last days. I was a fucking asshole, following in my uncles footsteps leaving my lovely aunt and fragile cousin to deal with it alone. My stupidity overcame me, the cancer destroyed him and he never recovered like I thought he would. I can’t even remember the last conversation I had with him which breaks my heart. The assumption that he would bounce never happened. From open heart surgery to bad business moves, he survived so much before, but this time he was not able to recover.

The photos of the Bukowski shirt my wife wore that day when I found out, will always be my favorite. They serve as a final goodbye to my uncle, because like him, I was too much of a coward to face the music. I loved that man and all the ass backwards teachings I learned from him. Every single day, I think back on those times shared with him, even if for only a few seconds.

Maybe I didn’t know the whole picture… maybe he was truly terrible. Maybe all the shit he taught me was unintentional and out of drunken stupor. Maybe the man I looked up to was a piece of garbage. But I like to still think of him as a superhero and I know he is somewhere, whether in another life… maybe in heaven or maybe hell, sitting on a muggy patio with a glass of scotch on the rocks, watching the Miami Dolphins, plotting on riches with a devious grin from ear to ear.

Diptych of Front and Back of Bukowski shirt. Boca Raton, 2o19.