The Twone

I've seen lively boys turn into taciturn men with closed faces. What is it that we do to them?





My friend George Antico killed himself at the age of 34. I found out the details from Steve Mosher while in my drive way leaning against his pickup truck. Steve has always been good at tough jobs like that, I can't imagine what it costs him. Steve was in Maine for my wedding, he made both of mine, though I missed his first. The reason I missed his first wedding was that I didn't have a penny and didn't even own a car. I never told him why and he never asked, though It probably hurt him. He is the oldest friend I have, even older than Antico who is dead, and you can't get any older than dead.




We called him Twone because he was Italian. Perhaps I should explain, first we called him Antione, then it was Antwone, then we shortened it to just plain Twone. Don't ask me why , these things have a life of their own. I think some people leave their home towns because of things like this. I've known perfectly respectable grown men that were pillars of their comunity, respected bussiness men, who are known as Boomer, or Bunkie, or [God spare me] Pud. I was once known as Swampy for a brief time, now I have more respectable titles such as asshole, shithead, or Mr. Hillman, as in, " Mr. Hillman are you happy with your phone service." I doubt it was our nickname that drove him to end his life, besides I think we caused him more physical than emotional pain.



Georges' parents were from Italy what we called, "right off the boat." His dad owned a dry cleaning bussiness, and his mom was the classic Italian mother, five feet tall with her hair in a bun on the back. She didn't like us, perhaps we were too foriegn. She spoke to George in half English mostly Italian, we couldn't understand most of what she said. When we asked George what she said he would just mumble' " I don't know", but we knew he understood every word. The Antico kitchen was an amazing place to three American white boys, there was pasta drying everywhere, garlic and peppers hanging from the ceiling, parmesan that wasn't in a plastic bottle. Were we ever invited to dinner? No fucking way, ravioli out of the can or Ragu slopped over spaghetti was our Italian dinner. I think Mrs. Antico was lost in a strange land and found her sons friends frightening. How unfortunate for all of us, we could have helped her feel more comfortable in her new home and she could have fed us.



I said three boys because there was a fourth member of our group his name was Neil Wetzler. His mother was not an American either but she spoke English as a first language being Scottish. She didn't have a problem accepting her sons friends, but she had no problem putting us in our place. What I remember about those households was that they both were strictly run. Steves house was a cool place to hang but we spent most of our time at my house. My mom ran a wide open town, no reason to check your guns at the door. Between my sister , three brothers, myself and all our friends the Hillman house was like a three ring circus. We even had the ring, So many bikes, trikes and big wheels had been ridden around our house there was a grassless dirt track packed down nice and hard.


To George who lived in Italy at home and America every where else, my house was a revelation. We did pretty much what we wanted, once I made French toast for all of us and George couldn't get enough. I don't know what he liked more the taste or the fact that I could just cook anything I wanted whenever I wanted. He asked if he could cook himself some and he did, three times. Steve, Neil and I just watched him with amusement because he seemed so excited by the whole thing. Oh yes I was talking about pain, Being our friend we inflicted much pain upon him. Neil was a pacifist so he never hit him with a baseball bat or floored him with a chocolate morsal to the eye, or headbutted him out of a chair after Boomer Scott homered off Al Hrabosky. I suppose it's a good thing one more friend like Steve and I and George might not have lived to be 34.


It wasn't that we wanted to hurt him, but shit happens. I can still see the bat slipping out of Steves' hands and completing a loop as it flew across the Moshers living room. George sitting there with a smile on his face as we discussed who knows what. It seemed to happen in slow motion, Steve flipping the bat back and forth, it slips flying across the room, whack onto the top of of Georges' melon, the shocked look on Steves' face, and then the final comic-tragic piece Steve yelling watch out after the impact. Being concerned friends we laughed into seat cushions for some time before weakly asking "are you alright?" Poor George , with friends like us he had no need for enemies. I don't know how many Italian jokes we told him, Steve and I spent one whole winter stuffing the Antico mailbox full of snow every night. George would complain at school the next day how he had to dig snow out of his mailbox again while we sympathized with straight faces. One night we dumped a gallon of corn chowder in there, which froze. It was awfully hard to keep a straight face the next day as George told how he had to melt it with hot water, and how bad it smelled. Yes, we were great friends.
The thing that brought us all together and nearly broke us apart on a daily basis was a board game called Strat-O-Matic Baseball. We all had our own teams, and every major league player had his own card. I could bore you with stories about the leagues we created then destroyed, near fistfights, Giant Enrique, tape recorded cheers, nicknames. Real baseball had Shoeless Joe Jackson, our league had Batless Eddie Murray because of his prolonged slumps. One story I will relate, Steve had a pitcher on his Cinncinati Reds team named Randy Jones, Randy won something like 15 straight games without a loss. Well George was playing the Reds over at Steves house, the first I knew about this game was Georges' exit from the Mosher house. George had beaten Jones with a lame ass pitcher named Dick Bosman and Steve physically threw him out the back door. George lay on the grass laughing. It's hard for me to make the leap from that picture to a man who felt his only option was death.
So on the morning of my wedding Steve told me the details. George had lost his job. The next morning he took his children to his parents house. He drove out to Route 128 and parked, got out and stepped in front of the next car that came along. The police were suspicious of the driver till they found the suicide note. I hadn't seen George in fifteen years and it isn't likely I ever would again, but who knows? Face Book makes anything possible, perhaps we would have reconnected and laughed about the old times. I'd finaly admit to putting his bycycle on the garage roof, but never the corn chowder in the mail box. I'd let Steve take the blame for that one.
Eulogies bore me, they're ussualy a lot of bullshit about how wonderfull the deceased was. I hope at my funeral the sentiment is , "he was an opinionated pain in the ass, now let's crack the keg." Some tributes are beautifull, when Johnny Cash died the rock group Nine Inch Nail simply blacked out their web site. No explenation, just a black screen. After Stevie Ray Vaughn died his brother was on Austin City Limits, Jimmie Vaughn ended his set with an Aaron Neville song, Six strings down, about a blues guitarists' trip to heaven. "See the voodoo child holdin' out his hands, we've been waiting for you brother, welcome to the band." On the word band the backing vocals rose like a gospel choir. By far the most eloquent eulogy I ever witnessed was for a high school student who had died on the road. He wasn't drunk or speeding, he was just riding his motorcycle home one night when a deer jumped in front of him. After the funeral all his friends drove their pickup trucks slowly down mainstreet squeeling their tires, filling the air with the smell of burned rubber. Here is my tribute to The Twone. George Brett at the plate, the roll is 3-4, Boomano.