Don't Forget to Write

Brother Bruno

I stopped on my way across the sidewalk to let an elderly man pass. I didn't do it because he was limping or moving slow, he just looked like the kind of man that commanded respect, the kind of man you should hold doors for and let walk in front of you. He was tall, around 6'3", and his grown out nappy hair with frosty gray tips made him look an inch or two taller. His body was lean with thick tight muscles nearly bursting out of his dark black skin. He walked with such deliberate strides and with posture so straight that you couldn't help but see him as a man in a position of power.

After the man passed, I walked up the sidewalk to the front of my apartment building, unlocked the door, marched down the hall to the stairwell and, with about 15 pounds of crap strapped to my shoulders, stomped up those dreadful six stories (we didn't have an elevator) to my new home, apartment 21, on the top floor. I stopped at the top to catch my breath before pushing the key into the door.

I was greeted first by Milo - Bruno's tough-as-nails guard dog. He barked ferociously as he stampeded down the hall and hurtled his terrifyingly muscular, 1-foot tall, 20 pound body into my open arms. He attacked me with affectionate licks that would scare even the fiercest of intruders away.

"Petey-Boy!" Bruno called from the living room down the hall.

"Bruno!" I called back. I opened the first door to my left, which brought me into my tiny room. In it, I was able to squeeze a twin size bed, a desk, and a thin set of drawers. I dropped my bags on the bed and went to the end of the hallway. Here, the hall opened up into the combined kitchen/living room space. The kitchen appliances were along the wall that faced the entrance, and a tall plastic table separated it from the open square that was our living room, which contained a futon, a coffee table, a television, and a PlayStation. The décor included a Portuguese flag from me, an Ecuadorian flag from Bruno, and an American flag from our Turkish friend, and a volunteer assistant coach/former player for CCNY, Mustafa, who joked that we looked like "treasonous commies" without American representation in our home. On the other side of the room was a door that led to Bruno's bedroom.

"Your parents coming up to see the place?"

"Nah, they had to hurry back home."

"Oh," he said, but he looked at me with skewed brow and piercing eyes that said that's weird.

I'd only known Bruno for a couple of months. We were introduced by Armando, the head coach at CCNY, because we were both looking for a place to stay. We had gotten to know each other fairly well in that time. You can learn a lot about a person when you're sharing lifestyle preferences and looking for a place to call home together. He was a master of nonverbal communication. His eyebrows could paint a landscape and his eyes could pierce steel. His skin was a deep dark brown, and his eyes and hair were black, all akin to his Ecuadorian heritage. He was a short and skinny man, he spiked his hair up with globs of gel (perhaps an attempt to give himself the appearance of being taller) but despite his stature, he was not to be trifled with. He was a few years older than me and was even wiser then his age let on, with a sharp and cunning intelligence that could embarrass any scholar. Through his hardened eyes, you could sometimes catch a glimpse of that violent, dark, chaos that exists in the deep trenches of every man. But for him, it seemed like all of the best and worst things about humanity were just below the surface, exactly where he wanted it because he knew how to use both. He did a fair job of keeping an even keel through his responsible nature; he had a great temper and overall matured control of his emotions, but you could tell that he had ready access to the crazed violence of barbarians and savages that we all trace our ancestry back to. Maybe it was a defense mechanism against those who might underestimate him because of his size.

"FIFA?" he asked, pointing to a PlayStation controller on the coffee table.

"Is this what you've done all weekend."

He nodded unapologetically.

"Armando gives us two days off for the first and probably only time this season and you spend it playing video games on the couch. Unbelievable."

"I'm an old man now, Petey," said the wise and mature 23-year-old, "I require times like these to rest my weary bones."

We played our usual rivalry game with random teams, best two out of three. He won, as usual. I went to the kitchen and made my nightly bedtime snack; peanut butter and jelly on potato bread. We said our goodnights and went to bed, ready to restart our routine in the morning.

Laying in bed, I smiled at myself like an idiot, for only an idiot can truly be happy. I had finally moved out. I was on my own now, for better or for worse. Every decision from this point forward was mine and mine alone. Rent, bills, public transportation, education, work, soccer... everything was a responsibility and a burden. And I couldn't have been happier.