The Mindset

by Ace Bowers

  Dude I’m stoked just to get back in touch with you! You grew up much faster than me and I admire you for that. I hope you realize your strengths and see how special you are by now because damn kid you are a hell of a guy... Just wanted to say that because if you haven't realized how valuable you are to humanity yet take a step back and compare yourself to ANYONE we used to chill with.. I hope you see how brilliant you are... Seriously you’re a great man and a great friend and father... I saw you shining today like you did in high school and I hope you see it yourself because with your attitude and discipline you can be great at anything... It made me so happy to see you today looking and feeling great. You deserve it.

  I’ve never deleted his email, and still read it from time to time. Anthony stopped answering my calls and emails afterwards. I knew his silence meant that he couldn’t, and wouldn’t, get clean. Eventually I stopped trying. I shouldn’t have, for this would be the last time I ever saw him.

  A few years later, in 2014, I was walking around the mall, drinking a cup of coffee, when my phone rang. I’m not sure how he had my number, but it was a friend from high school calling me to tell me that Anthony had just died. I softly asked how, but deep down I knew he had overdosed on drugs. My best friend Anthony had relapsed and succumbed to a heroin overdose. I think in my heart, I always knew this day—this call—would come, but I was still so unprepared for it. The news did not feel real to me: I had heard that he was clean for ten months. I had hoped and prayed that he would kick his many addictions once and for all.

  The funeral was difficult. I sat alone in the back of the church and cried the length of the service. His little sister shared the story of that wild party, of Anthony and I going out to fight those guys with a baseball bat, and in that moment, I visualized our entire childhood together and felt how close we had been. I remembered that night like it was yesterday. I remembered how I grabbed that bat, ready for battle. I mustered up a smile through my tears, and remembered how we always said we’d have each other’s back. But I couldn’t have his back anymore; he was gone, and I was crushed with guilt because I felt like I had let him down. From the back of that church, fragments from our innumerable conversations flew through my memory. During one of our more serious conversations in the woods one day, we had begun talking about life, death, the afterlife, and dreams. We made a promise to each other that if one of us ever died, we’d give the other a sign that heaven existed. This thought in particular lingered with me. All I could hope for was that he was in heaven now.

  Shortly after the funeral, I began having dreams about Anthony. These dreams became a regular occurrence over the next several months, and I don’t think this was a coincidence. In the dreams, he looked like the familiar, smiling, happy Anthony I had grown up with, and in almost all of them, it felt like Anthony was trying to communicate something to me. However, whenever I woke up, I wouldn’t remember the dream enough to understand what he was trying to tell me.

  Oddly enough, I had one particular dream about him wherein I could recall every single detail.

  In this dream, I stood alone. To my right, I could see a long, dark hallway devoid of light. To my left were the woods that Anthony and I had spent our time in all through high school. The sun was shining over the woods in a way that felt peaceful, blissful. I stood where I was a few more moments, and then suddenly, I saw Anthony. He walked out of that dark hallway, passed right in front of me, and continued into the glistening woods. Just before he vanished in between the trees, he turned around and smiled at me.

  Coincidentally, this dream would be the last one I would ever have about him. I knew now, with absolute certainty, that Anthony was okay. That he was finally contented and in a better place. For the first time in a long time, I felt better about Anthony. I felt a sense of peace and closure. I think that, in some way, I blamed myself for not doing more to save him. Maybe I felt like I had given up on my friend too soon, but internally, I knew I had tried. Now, I was comforted with the knowledge that he was free from his pain and I felt a spirit of lightheartedness come upon me.

  Throughout your life, you'll find that you make three kinds of friends. There are the friends with whom you share a surface bond. There are friends in which the bond runs deeper, and is unbreakable—this was my relationship with Anthony. Finally, there are friends who stay with you your whole life: they become your family. That was Abe for me. I love and trust him so much that I made him a part of the family through my son. Abe is a Chinese-American Marine Sergeant and, as I mentioned, the godfather of Noah. His father died when he was around ten years old. We were friends in junior high, but then his mom sent him to Texas to attend a military academy for high school. I would only get to see him during summer vacations, spring breaks, and holidays.

  Abe and I built countless memories. He shares my passion for cars: we loved working on them together, building and racing them together, so much so that we would go to the nearby city of Fremont on the weekends and drag race. At eighteen, we purchased our first guns together. It goes without saying that we spent a great deal of time together and he, in turn, spent a great deal of time with my family.

  Since my dad had been in the Navy and had also attended a military academy when he was younger, Abe loved coming over to my house to chat with him. They had so many common interests, and Abe would talk to him about joining the military after he graduated; he really looked up to my dad. My dad would listen to Abe while he helped us tinker around on cars in the garage.

  Abe still tells me how my dad played an influential role in his decision to ultimately join the military. Since Abe had lost his father at such a young age, he viewed my dad as a father figure. He still loves visiting my parents, and we all consider him to be a part of our family. Abe did join the Marines, as planned, and eventually became a Marine Sergeant. Like any brother would, he visited all the way from San Diego to meet Noah when he was a newborn, right before leaving for Iraq. At the time, we lived in a studio apartment and Noah was just a few days old. I was the first one of our friends to have a kid, and Abe felt like he should see Noah before leaving. He completed a tour there as the gunner with a tank crew and we stayed in touch. When he returned to California, he asked to go on a second tour to Afghanistan because he wanted to contribute more, but the Marines denied his request so he remained at Camp Pendleton.

  The bond that Abe and I share stems from the fact that we both felt like underdogs when we were younger. We figured out how to build our path together, Abe by joining the Marines, and me by becoming a family man. While Abe was stationed in Iraq, he told me about a sign he passed by every day when he left the base for duty. It read, “Complacency kills.” He expressed how he respected the fact that I was never complacent in life, and that I was always trying to grow bigger and to better myself.

  One of the most memorable moments Abe and I shared together was when Yuka, our kids, and I visited him in San Diego. He took us to the USS Midway Museum, which houses maritime aircrafts. We toured the museum and visited the flight deck, and right there on that flight deck sat my father’s decommissioned chopper, the actual helicopter he had piloted when he served our country. Abe and I saw the cockpit where my dad had once sat, and for a moment, we imagined what it must have been like for him. Abe, who is very patriotic like my father, was moved to see this type of history. We stood there, two sons in a sense, admiring a history shared by my father. A real father to me and a father figure to Abe.

  He and I have always stayed in touch. Though our topics of conversation these days consist of money, investing, real estate, and the economy, we still find the time to enthuse about cars. We help each other with advice, and are there for each other whenever we need a helping hand. Abe remains a big part of our lives. He fulfills his obligation as a fun uncle to a tee, and always comes by the house to bring gifts for Noah and Ariel on birthdays and holidays. Today, Abe is more of a businessman. He owns several companies and dabbles in real estate. We are still best friends but more than that, we are b
rothers.

  Chapter 8

  Reckless Abandon

  The prodigal son never returns

  Standing in the driveway of my parents’ house with his shirt off, a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other, was my older brother Billy. Covered in dirt and grease from fixing his truck, there he stood, in all his redneck glory, as the sun beat down on him and sweat highlighted the smattering of Confederate-styled tattoos covering his body. Here I was, pulling into my parents’ house to live with a newborn baby and Japanese wife. This would be Yuka’s first impression of my family. She had not met anyone yet, not even my parents. I never asked her what went through her mind that day as we drove up, but I think I was mortified enough for the both of us.

  If you’ve made it this far in my memoir, there’s no doubt you’ve heard me mention my brother. My brother and I are very different—Jekyll and Hyde different. We view the world differently, both socially and ideologically. I absolutely love my brother, but I deplore his behavior and his lifestyle. I’m sure many of his feelings are a result of the times he spent in prison. I always wanted to be close with him, but it’s hard to form a bond with someone who has missed almost half of your life. I will never know how it feels to grow up with a big brother because it was stolen from me.

  My brother is ten years older than me, and he went to jail for the first time when I was around four years old. He has been behind bars for twenty years of his life. No, he never had a consecutive sentence, but rather a bunch of small sentences that have accumulated over the course of his life. His crimes slowly escalated to the point where he graduated from jail, to prison. He served time at San Quentin and Corcoran, two of the toughest prisons in the country. Charles Manson was housed at Corcoran at the same time as my brother.

  I don’t like to talk to my brother about his time in prison, so, I’ve never asked him questions about what he went through or what it was like. I don’t know if it’s because I’m afraid of what he’ll say, or if I just don’t care to know the details. He’s definitely become more aggressive and fearless and I'd be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy having a mean older brother growing up who could be my defender, protector, and enforcer. I felt an odd sense of pride in his tough-as-nails demeanor, because I knew he would do anything for me.

  It is often bittersweet, talking about my brother. On one hand, he loves me, he is very loyal, and I’m sure he would take a bullet for me if it came to it. But on the other hand, he has caused me an indescribable amount of pain through his absence. He has been an emotional and financial burden on our family: my parents spent money they couldn’t spare for his bail, lawyer fees, and court costs, and life for my brother continued like this for years, because he wouldn’t learn from his mistakes.

  When I was still in elementary school, I learned that if I answered the phone and it was a collect call, to always accept the charges. It was my brother calling from jail. Growing up, all I wanted was my big brother, but he was never there. It was hard as a kid for me to process where my brother was and why he wasn’t living at home with us. I wanted to play ball with him and do all of the things brothers did together, but I didn’t understand what jail was and what he had done not to be allowed to live with us. As I grew older, I slowly understood that my brother was in a place for people who had done bad things.

  I recall being in the courtroom the day he was sentenced to four years in prison for drug trafficking, transporting firearms, and driving drunk. I hadn't seen him in a while because he had been in jail awaiting his trial. My parents took me out of school on the lawyer’s suggestion that showing family support might help lessen his sentence. So, I sat there, slouched in the back row of the courtroom. I was frightened. Then, my brother entered in a bright orange jumpsuit, escorted by two sheriffs, his hands and ankles shackled together. The judge talked for a while and then rendered his sentence.

  My eyes were locked on Billy the entire time. I searched for any sign of emotion on his face as the judge announced his fate, but I saw nothing. And just like that, my brother received four years in prison. He didn't look at me or my parents during the sentencing, but I was a nervous wreck. My tear-filled eyes remained focused on my brother as they escorted him out of the courtroom. Just before he reached the door, he turned his head around, looked at me, and gave me a single nod. It would be several months before I saw my brother again.

  Towards the end of summer, I was about to enter 9th grade. Starting high school was a big deal for me: I was going to be a freshman and I was feeling abandoned by my siblings: my brother, with his four-year sentence, was gone, and my sister had left to attend college at San Luis Obispo. This would leave me at home alone with my parents and their constant fighting. Since my sister’s college was near my brother’s prison, Nanny paid for the family to visit them both. I will never forget the way I felt when I saw him in that prison. The guards buzzed me into the little phone room. I sat in the chair and slowly picked up the telephone receiver.

  We talked to each other through a thick window of glass. I didn't know what to say; I just stared at him for a minute and held back tears. He looked so different. He was scary, his arms were big and his face, stout. I didn't want to speak because I knew he’d hear in my voice that I was about to cry, but I mustered the strength to say, “You look scary man.” He paused for a few seconds, and said “In here, I need to.” And that’s all he said.

  For the next several minutes, I wanted to tell him that I hated him for always being in jail and how much I missed him. I wanted him to know I was going into high school and that I was scared. Now that our sister was off at college, I had nobody at home with me. Mom and Dad had gotten really bad lately and I don't know what to do. I wanted to tell him that I really needed him in my life right now. But of course, I didn't say any of those things. I barely spoke a word. He sensed there was a lot I wanted to say, and he asked me questions about baseball and my girlfriend. I replied in one word answers to bury my emotions.

  My brother would write me letters from prison and they meant the world to me. They could never fill the hole he had left in my life from his absence, but knowing he was thinking about me always made me smile before the pain of missing him kicked in. I’ve never told him this, but I still have a shoebox filled with every letter he wrote me from prison, and I still read them sometimes. They were his only outlet to share his feelings, and reading them, I knew I had a big brother who cared. He remained in prison for four years and served his time, and was released about a week before my high school graduation. I was beaming when I learned that he would come to watch me graduate from high school.

  Now, I don’t want to make my brother out to be a monster. Yes, he has his issues, but he’s done some really great things for me throughout my life. Does it make up for the time we lost as brothers? Of course not, but he has been there for me when he could. He has fulfilled the unspoken rule of an older brother: to defend and protect his baby brother. I remember a time when I was around twelve years old and someone stole my skateboard. I told my brother and he drove around the neighborhood all day looking for whoever had taken it. Skateboarding was sentimental to me because it was one of the things my brother taught me how to do. It meant the world to me my brother cared enough to try and get it back.

  So when I had to move back home to my parents’ house, my brother knew I was scraping up every cent I could to save for my wife and son. My brother threw me a bone and let me paint houses with him on the weekends. He knew I could use that extra cash. Later on, when I was more established, we flipped a house together. It was another way I hustled to make money for my family. I wanted to repay the favors my brother extended me, and I knew he was good with construction. It was a win-win for everyone and I loved working with my big bro any chance I got.

  My brother has had many rowdy incidents where he tried to defend me or protect me. Even as an adult he would step in if he thought someone was trying to take advantage of me. Although some of his methods were barbaric and he would completely embarras
s me at times, I always appreciated the fact he looked out for me. We are still a bit estranged, and though we don’t always see eye to eye, there has been and will always be an unspoken love between us.

  Chapter 9

  Talking it Out: Conversations with my family

  Have you ever really sat down and considered the relationships you’ve had throughout your life? You might think you have your parents all figured out, but then one day your mom or dad opens up to you in a way you never thought possible, and your complete outlook shifts. It’s that eye-opening perspective that gives you a newfound appreciation for the people in your life.

  Throughout this book, you have listened to me talk about my family. You know the good, the bad, and the ugly, and I want to shed some new light on what I’ve learned over the years, through various conversations with different family members. Sometimes the way we perceive situations or people as a child is very different from when we view the same scenarios again as an adult. In my younger years, I was resentful for parts of my upbringing, the hardships I had to face, and the shame I had to feel. But when I consider that same life through my adult, fatherly eyes, there are facets that I now perceive differently.