Pen Pals
Who needs a phone? Lately, my brother Phil and I have been corresponding in an old-fashioned manner.
In this era of smartphones and easy communication across the globe, there’s rarely a need to slip a note under someone’s door.
Which brings me to the 29th and final day of February, when I drove 10 miles to my brother Phil’s building in Chicago’s South Loop, found my way up to his apartment and pounded on his door for a good five minutes.
Either conked out or simply somewhere else, Phil didn’t come to the door. I suspect the latter, since his near-constant companion—a blaring television—wasn’t part of the equation.
Instead, my only company were framed images of Muhammad Ali, along with Salome bearing the head of John the Baptist.
Unprepared to leave a note, I went downstairs and secured a pen and piece of paper from the kindly guard who, after I’d left my driver’s license as collateral, buzzed me in earlier.
It had been four weeks since I’d last seen my brother. For much of that time, I’d been in Georgia, hoping and praying that he’d be OK in the interim.
I’d had no way to reach him, either. Despite being one of the most resourceful individuals I’ve ever known, Phil has been without a cell phone for six months and when it comes to borrowing a phone for a few moments to call me, he’s at a loss.
It’s sort of like being back in 1982, only without a landline1.
Since last fall, when Phil went phoneless, swinging by later in the evening has proven to be a winning formula. By that point he’s well past his panhandling shift (usually late morning and early afternoon) and sundry errands, such as making the trek to his drug dealer somewhere on Chicago’s West Side.2
By 9 or 10 p.m., when I time my visits, Phil’s almost always comfortably settled back in his studio apartment.
For years, I’ve lived with a hyper-heightened sense that each time I’m with my brother it could be the last time I see him alive. So 2 ½ weeks ago, an extra dose of suspense and dread dogged me as I approached his door.
What would I find?
The last several visits, shirtless and building a kite and watching a movie from his extensive DVD collection at a near-deafening roar have been prominent boxes on the bingo card.
From there, an hour of mostly one-sided rapid-fire conversation ensues. With little outlet for conversation since my last visit, Phil squeezes in as many topics as he can muster.
It’s mandatory, too, that I accept a bag of items Phil’s collected on my behalf: food bars, candy and other non-perishable food stuffs that motorists have bestowed on him. There’s usually some other miscellany—a piece of clothing, maybe a kajillion hand warmers, stuff you might expect at a flea market.
It’s as if he’s channeled our mom, who was famous/infamous for unloading stuff on me and my two other siblings when we’d visit her over the last few decades of her life.
Phil was not one to be on the receiving end of those transactions: Their relationship strained by his alcoholism and drug addiction, Mom made it clear that she wasn’t keen on Phil visiting—and for long stretches none of us knew where he was, anyhow.
Most of the stuff winds up by my dumpster (for anyone who, like Phil, is an alley scavenger) or at a Goodwill facility. I also look out for opportunities to honor Phil’s spirit of generosity: When it’s cold enough, I make a point of wearing a winter coat that he gave me a year ago.
This time, however, there would be no door prizes. Only me banging loudly on his door—in case he was sleeping—and calling out his name, all the while hoping not to disturb neighbors.
After slipping my note under his door, I saw a neighbor who confirmed that he’d seen Phil earlier in the day. On this excursion, it was as close to “proof of life” as I’d get.
He said he’d let Phil know I’d swung by—a backup communication plan that I appreciated, in case my note escaped Phil’s attention.
Nearly 48 hours later, I got word back from Phil—in the form of a note that he left at my front door sometime during my 10 hours away that Saturday. Using a red marker on a tattered Chicago Transit Authority map, Phil’s note bore two pieces of good news:
he expects to be able to secure a phone soon—within 10 days, he stated.
he’s been getting six straight hours of sleep, so “do not wake me.”
As someone who has resorted to writing on Kleenex boxes to take notes,3 I respect Phil’s creative approach. In recent months, that’s included a Trader Joe’s paper bag, a box for cigarette filter tubes, and the old Baron Boy standby, an envelope.
In addition to those hopeful remarks, Phil told me not to come by his apartment because he doesn’t want neighbors to know he has family. It’s a familiar caution he’s given over his years of “street life,” a protective gesture because he doesn’t want anyone ever showing up on my doorstep.
Over the past two weeks, I’ve heeded his request, hoping to get that phone call from Phil. But I can wait only so long…and though I won’t knock loudly, I suspect this coming week will find me once again at his door.
Our landline in Marshfield, Mass. was a rotary, so our index fingers would get a workout as we literally dialed the seven- or 11-digit number (believe it or not, you’d need to dial “1” first for those numbers outside your area code). I suspect I’ve entirely confounded younger readers with this description that sounds like it occurred while dinosaurs roamed the Earth.
With Phil’s blessing, I’ve written over a dozen essays on him and our relationship. Type “Brother Love” into the search box to read more about it.
In the 1990s, I covered a fire for my newspaper on an envelope—it was the only material I could get my hands on as I drove into the office.
I LOVE these brother love stories. When I read these, I feel like I am there, in the story. I definitely feel the description of driving 10 miles, then trudging all the way up the stairs, only to receive no answer from repeated pounding!