The Bearded Cheerleader

DO YOU WANT TO BE A WES ANDERSON OR A MICHAEL BAY?!

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No one was a bigger fan of my writing than my brother Blake.

No one was a bigger critic of not just my work but of all the arts: music, film, editorial, narrative, fiction, memoir, theatre, mixed-media—than Blake. 

Every morning he’d wake up at 6:30 AM fired up, slugging coffee, sucking cigs, ready to talk art.

“Z—THERE’S A NOTICIBLE DECLINE IN THE QUALITY OF THE WRITING ON SEINFELD AFTER SEASON SEVEN. KNOW WHY?” 

“Why?” I’d ask wearily.

“CAUSE LARRY DAVID LEFT AS EXECUTIVE PRODUCER—BUT…” He’d slam his coffee-hard cup against the table. He’d take a thoughtful drag of a fresh ciggie. “He came back in ‘98 to write the series finale.” 

“Z!” He’d boom again. Then he’d lower his voice cryptically as if telling a haunted tale, “Do you know what the one rule of the Seinfeld writer’s room was?” 

Before I’d have the chance to respond with, “Yes. You’ve only told me three thousand times—”

He’d be mid-sentence “‘no hugging and no learning,’” he’d rapid-fire smugly. 

Then he’d pop a Zoloft, swash it back with black coffee, and instantly stretch his lips into a deranged, theatrical smile.

This always made me laugh and laugh and Blake knew this so it became his regular morning bit. 

I used to call his morning coffee musings: “Autism Hour with Blake Barrie.” Blake wasn’t offended by this—we’re spectrum-y and proud in this family—but, like me, he had a twisted sense of trauma-driven humor.

Did you know he had a fake after-hours talk show, where he’d pretend to be my dad? He’d stare sparkly-eyed into a rhetorical camera lens and wink, “Ya like to get drunk?” He’d swill a prop glass full of my dad’s notorious liquor of choice, Cutty Sark, and stage whisper, “Ya like to get fucked?” Before cheerily announcing, “Welcome to Cunt and Cutty, with Richie Barrie!” 

Blake was a savage and not much offended him. Unless of course, Espresso Martinis were involved. I started calling them  “Express Yourself Martinis” after one family dinner where Blake slurped six and became obscenely outraged when the restaurant owner had the gall to refer to me as “pretty.” 

“HOW CAN YOU NOT BE OFFENDED? HE’S HITTING ON YOU IN FRONT OF THE FAMILY!” I rolled my eyes. “And as a feminist—” he’d clip self-righteously, as if he was a young Gloria Steinham, standing on a soapbox at the women’s march for reproductive freedom, “I’m offended.”

I had to chuckle. Offended? Ok, bro.

This was the same guy who giggled with sociopathic ease when recalling his stint in a third-world jail after getting busted buying coke on the beach from an undercover extortion cop.

Happiness—a “comedy” about pedophilia was one of his favorite films.

He’d staunchly defend Woody Allen and Roman Polanski, just ‘cause he liked to rile me up. He fiercely believed we should live in a free-fart society and behaved as if we did.

He was the only person who found my jokes about our blonde mom secretly being a neo nazi, hysterically funny. 

Sick humor aside, there was something he took seriously besides literary criticism and becoming a scholar of World War 2 —and that was: protecting me. And of course, his methods of protection were as Avante Guarde as the man himself. 

When I was sixteen I had a schoolyard brawl with a megalomaniac rich girl. Blake caught wind and picked me up from school that day, blasting the Beastie Boys, puffing his parliaments on school property like a baller. He trailed her tacky convertible all the way home, intermittently catching up to her, rolling the windows down, honking the horn, meeting her eyes, flipping her off then waving at her warmly with that big psycho smile of his, before speeding off, wash, rinse and repeat. 

I once showed him a message I’d received from some troll-y bro on MySpace. You look pretty good for an anorexic whore, it read. Blake grabbed my laptop and furiously typed: “Do you like the smell of shit? Because my ass is going to explode all over your face.”

Recently, a stalker (not as glam as it sounds) who’d been harassing me for months sent me a slew of deranged texts from multiple robo numbers when I happened to be with Blake. We were getting lit mid-day at Club Chemo—our cute pet name for his harrowing chemotherapy sessions. 

“Why don’t you just let me park my car in front of the stalker’s apartment for three days? It’ll scare the shit out ‘em.” He’d promise, his voice tough and threatening; his body frail and sick with Cancer.

I’d envision Blake parked on the streets of West Hollywood in his intimidating lesbian Prius, a whopping 118 pounds, ready to kick ass for me—and I’d feel warm and safe like I had armed guards protecting me.

The truth was, as long as Blake was around, I was safe. ‘Cause my brother possessed that kind of crazy iteration of love that could lift cars and shit.

I was lying next to him wrapped in his filthy black hoodie, as he slowly began the process of dying. I played music on his beloved Samsung flip phone and it was the only time he ever let me control the playlist—when I was DJing his death.

“I know you’re seething I’m finally in charge of the music—but you must admit?” I asked, resting my head on his bony shoulder, “I’m doing a great job.”

I swear he grumbled in agreement. 

I choked back a fevered sob.

All I’d ever wanted was to control the music and now I wanted nothing more than for him to force me to listen to whatever obscure Canadian band he was obsessed with at the moment. One I’d be resistant to liking because I’m a little sister and that’s what we do—but much to my chagrin would become reluctantly obsessed with because his taste in music was—as much as it pains me to admit—better than mine.

And mine’s fucking fire. 

But then an epiphany came swooping into the room, uninvited and irritingly angelic. 

“Not now,” I tisked to Epiphany, “Blake hate’s earnest shit. Let me rage.” 

Epiphany didn’t listen. Epiphanies never do. “You got more brother in 38 years than most people get in a lifetime.” She lilted before breezing out the door.

Tears gently spilled down my cheeks and I let them calmly fall into Blake’s filthy hoody.

Epiphany was right.

It’s not right or fair that he was taken so young. Time is indeed a frustrating construct beyond our control—but also: maybe she’s not as powerful of bitch as we think.

Maybe we can’t quantify the quality of a life or the fullness of a relationship through something so trivial, so elementary, so unsophisticated as time. 

After all, movies Blake’s most cultish passion, can depict a masterpiece so powerful it can alter your insides and render you forever changed—in under two hours.

What is the real value of making it to ninety years on earth—when over half those years are spent going through the motions, squashing your real desires, living a life that isn’t yours? Secretly fantasizing about wild affairs, and burning it all down—but never having the courage to move the needle? 

When you’re not living in alignment with your real unapologetic self you’re not really living. And most people spend such a small percentage of their time here knowing who they are—letting alone honoring who they are. Some never get there at all. 

I can safely say that Blake was his fiery, boldly outspoken, fighting-for-what-is-right, morally dictating, neurodiversely smart, ill-humored, big-hearted, cereal-eating, FULL self for the entirety of his forty-three years on this planet.

He encouraged me to always stay true to myself, too—especially when it came to my writing. When I’d call him inconsolable because one of my edgy book proposals had been rejected by thirty-six publishers and I was *certain* I was about to be dropped by my agents—he had zero patience for my self-loathing. 

“Do you know that the feature of Bottle Rocket—was rejected by Sundance,” he’d grumble. “And now it’s widely considered to be one of Wes Anderson’s greatest masterpieces. Don’t you know all great art takes a little longer to be understood?” Then he’d hype me up like a football coach and shout: “Do you want to be a WES ANDERSON or a Michael Bay?”

“A Wes Anderson!” I’d shout back, instantly pumped. 

Blake was my bearded cheerleader and big brother wrapped up in one hairy, charming package. 

I keep thinking of one of our last nights in the hospital, just a few weeks ago, right before we took him home for hospice. 

He was high on morphine and hooked up to multiple IVs. I sat next to him in the stiff leather chair in an oversized Hello Kitty sweatshirt, he’d drowsily complimented me on when I arrived. 

It was late night and quiet except for the hospital sounds. CLINK. BEEP. SHUFFLE. SILENCE. CLINK. BEEP. SHUFFLE. Out of the blue, he suddenly piped. “You know, Z, you’ve outgrown my notes.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Your abilities as a writer have surpassed my edits.” He sighed. “What the hell are you doing all this other bullshit work stuff for,” he looked at me judgedly. “You’re too fucking talented. You’re a David Sedaris! Trust me. Keep going. Don’t worry. I got you.” He said before drifting to sleep. 

I didn’t know what he meant by “I got you” and I still don’t.

I also don’t know if I’ve got the chops of Sedaris—but here’s what I do know: I trust him.

So I’m going to keep fucking going.

And like Blake’s favorite essayist David Sedaris—I’ll never stop writing about my family.

Because Blake gifted me with a lifetime of rich material, in the thirty-eight years I had the *wild* privilege of being his little sister.