So today my nephew PJ turns 40. He has led a troubled and turbulent life. He's in a state of unrest again. I truly hope and pray for him that, as he enters his 41st turn around this planet, he finds a peaceful path.
When he was born, I was finishing my junior year of college. My parents flew out to California to help my sister with the new baby. My Dad got to meet his third grandchild -- I have the pictures of him holding the adorable baby boy.
But my parents returned to Florida far more worried than joyful. The problem wasn't PJ -- it was his father Pat. Pat was, well, opposed to working and supporting his family. Working and supporting one's family was, for my father, the essence of any man. My father was shocked and in disbelief about his son in law, and upon return home, set about planning to go back to work to support my sister and her son.
His concerns didn't last very long -- he died a little over 4 months later, at 63.
PJ grew into an adorable toddler, and got a baby brother when he was 2. His Mom kept things together -- the boys' father set new lows for worthlessness as a human -- at least to my view. But PJ went to school, and grew up -- always a quirky young man, but sweet and artistic.
As a teen, he LOVED to cook. I remember one visit to California, when he was a teen, and he ran the barbecue. He was meticulous about the burgers he prepared -- and justly proud of how delicious they came out.
But after high school, he started community college in pursuit of an architecture degree. He didn't do well -- dropping classes he didn't enjoy, and sort of beginning a pattern of never truly finishing anything he started. Along the way, he wrecked several vehicles, including a used truck I sent him the money to buy. But thankfully no one was hurt.
He was floating along as a young adult, and then, it seemed to me, there was a path! He would join the USAF. I was thrilled for him -- always recalling the sage experience of my friend Kenny, who retired as a US Navy Captain. He often told me that the military was a place where he saw directionless young man enter, and leave with discipline and purpose. Ah, I thought, that would be the deal for PJ.
Also, his other uncle, my brother in law Dennis, was a USAF vet -- the early Vietnam War years. The Air Force let him see the world for the first time -- East Asia -- and he returned far more wise and experienced than when he left for service. He was thrilled for PJ, too.
He got through basic training, and there are pictures of my beaming sister with her handsome son in uniform. Finally, I thought -- he will find a way.
It wasn't to be. I suppose the rigidity and demands of the military clashed with PJ's essence. It was the time of "Don't Ask/Don't Tell," and he told -- of a relationship with a fellow young airman. It was then adios USAF.
After that, things spiraled down for him. He disappeared, and was discovered in Utah, I think, telling people on a bus he was a savior of some sort.
A sad pattern emerged. He would come home, move back with his Mom, and then go again on his walkabouts.
There was a period of hope. His Mom founded and owned an art gallery, and he became artistic director. He painted, and sold some paintings. Maybe there would be some life success as an artist?
It would never last, and then he disappeared for years. My sister and nephew went looking for him -- up the Cali coast, especially in areas that attracted the homeless. They couldn't find him -- until: he turned up in Boise, Idaho -- in the jail there. He was arrested , I think, for trespass, or panhandling, or some homeless-type crime.
His Mom sprung him, and brought him home. Again -- things would be stable for awhile, and then spiral again.
He was diagnosed with schizo- affective disorder. He was also a drug addict -- crystal meth. There were multiple suicide attempts -- chemical, and one Rube Goldberg event, where he rigged a concrete block to fall on his head. That one did some facial nerve damage, I seem to recall.
My sister NEVER gave up on him. She was his champion. She always saw worth and talent when it seemed the rest of the world saw a lost cause. And then, when PJ was, I think, about 30 came the worst.
He jumped off the third story of a parking garage. Probably a taller building would have ended his life, but instead he ended up in a coma and multiple fractures. He had months of hospitalizations and rehab.
This was going on during my Mom, his grandmother's, final year of life. Of course, we told her nothing about this latest tragedy -- she probably couldn't have processed it.
But with his mother's undying love and support -- somehow PJ recovered. But victories would prove short lived.
At his brother's wedding, he made a scene, followed by a vomiting into the circle of the gathered guests.
A few years later, D1 and Joey were to be married, and I told my sister I could not have PJ to the wedding. It was my daughter's big day, and I wanted the focus totally on her. My sister was appalled -- she didn't come, and couldn't believe how heartless I was. But I knew what had to be -- PJ was already showing he didn't do well in the world of the mainstream, and I wasn't going to focus on that at D1's wedding.
After that, he left again -- this time for LA. He was homeless and doing drugs. He was arrested for what would normally be an old timey sort of crime: arson. Unfortunately, in Cali, with the devastating fires, arson is a much bigger deal than it would have been in, say, Florida.
He went to the LA County Jail. It was Covid time. He spent a LOT of time there, but got clean, and after he reached a plea deal -- there was light again for him.
He was placed in a lovely apartment in Hollywood -- all paid by the state. He began to paint -- maniacally -- literally hundreds of colorful works he dashed off. He sold some to friends and family.
My sister and the rest of us were thrilled. Finally -- he was on a good track. He was supported by the state, needed only to keep up his apartment, and keep on painting. Maybe he would even teach art to other released inmates.
Nope. Short lived again -- he wrecked the place, and was tossed out.
His latest iteration is some kind of halfway house in, I think, Long Beach. But last I heard, he painted the walls of his room -- again -- and was placed on suspension. Since he's on probation, I guess the likely course is a trip back to jail if he keeps up with these actions. I hope that doesn't happen.
Man. 40. For me, that age was the height of my powers. I was very lucky in my career. I bought a big ass house for my family. The Ds were tweens -- passing to adulthood themselves.
Paul and I truly felt the world was ours for the taking. If we wanted a case -- we got it. We prosecuted our cases aggressively. We gave charity -- including a large no interest loan that let our friend start his Jewish Center -- which just broke ground to build one of the largest facilities to help special needs kids in the state.
It was a golden age for my Dad, too. At 40 he had the luxury of finally supporting his family with a single job: salesman. At 43 he bought his first house -- and moved his family from Queens to Nassau County -- for a poor son of immigrants who grew up in The Bronx -- he had ARRIVED.
For most of my friends, 40 was a wonderful age, too. No real annoying, chronic health issues, but the wisdom of having lived 4 decades.
I hope against hope that my nephew "comes to himself," to use one of my late Mom's favorite expressions.
His brother Henry has lived a life with successes that are the polar opposite of his brother's failures. He's also a gifted filmmaker, and is nearing completion of a documentary about his brother.
The best documentaries give focus and understanding about their subjects. I have a strong sense that's what Henry's film will provide. He tells us it won't be an easy film to watch.
As his brother turns 40 -- I hope for a miracle. Maybe at 50, he'll have found his footing in life. I truly hope so.
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