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Otto's Benediction
I am no friend of the goodbye. I love you and I will miss you but I would just assume sneak out of the house while you are sleeping. The bigger the goodbye, the less inclined I am to be around for it. When I left seminary I was leaving good friends, leaving people who had participated a major transitional stage in my life. Moreover, I was leaving housemates who loved each other like a leper colony. I was also leaving ICBC behind, but that was just so I didn’t have to create a mushroom cloud over Alta Street (God bless you, DMV!). In short, I was leaving an entire country behind and I had no intention of ever returning. It wasn’t because I hated Canada, but simply because I never thought I would have the occasion to visit her again.
Chief among my relationships over those six years was a fellow named Matt. He was a stout fellow with a beard like Jim “the Anvil” Neidhart. In fact, Matt looked a great deal like that great Canadian wrestler, if said wrestler was a bit rounder and tripped constantly over the kitchen throw-rug.
I don’t mind admitting that I was the spitting image of Brett “the Hitman” Hart in those days. My mane didn’t flow quite so sexily, but I did wax and oil my man-breasts and was never seen without my pink, heart-covered spandex.
Matt and I had something of an id and ego relationship. He was a man of integrity, almost to a fault. Matt was a computer science major with a brilliantly mathematical mind. He was a PhD candidate in sociology before he decided on theology. He picked up Hebrew quickly, and then—just as quickly—dropped it all to become a stay-at-home dad.
The little ego he did have was overshadowed by his fierce devotion to his family. On occasion, I would invite him for poker, or to a movie. The answer was always no. His self-designated place was in the home, not by obligation, but because he respected himself more in that context. This drove me crazy. I tried to convince him that he would be a better father and husband if he took more time for himself. He would just shrug away such justifications and proceed to eat his bagel topped with one inch of grape-jelly.
My wife and I lived with his family for almost two years in Vancouver. During that time, Matt’s son was three years old and ready for postgraduate work. We fell in love with Matt’s mini-me and knew we’d never love another child like that until we had our own. For a couple years one of my best friends was a three year old. In leaving, I was saying a permanent goodbye to him. If ever we met again, he would have no memory of me. I lamented this goodbye the most. Little did I know that my goodbye to his father would be lamented more.
Soon after we left, Matt was diagnosed with colon cancer. When we got the news it had spread rapidly to his lymph nodes. Matt and family had moved back to the United States where treatment for such things is measured in tens of thousands of dollars. Friends from all over the world tried to move Heaven and Earth to help him. When the standard medical treatments failed, Matt tried alternative medicines, diets, prayer. Matt died the week my daughter was born.
My last conversations with him discussed his fears. “I’m not afraid of death,” he said, “I’m afraid of not seeing my sons grow up.” When I hung up, I said goodbye to the phone receiver—it never occurred to me that I was saying goodbye to Matt. I suppose I never really said goodbye. Perhaps the closest I came was when I drove away from the Vancouver house.
You may remember Otto, the bus driver, of Simpson’s fame. He has hair like Brett “the Hitman” Hart but is better known for his raspy surfer voice and recklessly loud headphones. Matt and I mimicked Otto’s voice as we quoted his favorite Simpsons farewell, “Bye bye, lard ass!” Bye bye lard ass was Otto’s way of saying, “Godspeed, my good sir!” Bye bye lard ass was Otto’s benediction as he sent you lovingly on your merry way. Bye bye lard ass was proclaimed several times daily in our house with every swinging of the front door.
Not wanting to make a big deal of my final departure, I bought Matt a greeting card. I paid extra for the kind with the blank interior. I handed the sealed envelope to him in the driveway and drove south. As our natural gas BC Hydro van drove out of sight, Matt opened the card. In bold, black permanent marker, Otto’s mantra said goodbye for me.
Matt’s wife is now remarried and his sons are in junior high. I imagine that they continue to say goodbye to Matt as the years pass. Matt and his WWF beard. Matt frying tofu squares for his mini-me. Matt and his shuffling, socked feet. Matt and his terribly annoying devotion and integrity. Every memory is another goodbye that I never articulated.
Like most men who care for their man-breasts with wax and oil, I learn my relational lessons slowly, if at all. I still avoid good byes at all costs. I still sneak out the back door by cover of night. Do believe me when I say that I love you and I will miss you. But the most I have ever been able to muster is a simple benediction:
Bye bye lard ass.
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