Gup, Spiders, & What Might Be Next…
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“We must keep the listeners entertained, D. Looks like I saved your ass with the old Russian Frog Sandwich. You know I won’t always be around here to help you too much longer.”
“Why not, Gup?” I’d ask, heart in my throat.
“The demands of the Divine are calling me, D.,” he’d say, winking one last time before fading into the mist.
*          *          *
Maybe I’d fly back to my youth at the Cape and look for possible apparitions. I’d see myself moving barefoot down Beach Street in Dennis, ready to greet the world at Bay View, a lovely stretch of sand and salt water where I spent numerous idyllic summers. The pavement was warm, and silt had blown across the road, and a lovely, benign breeze came in off the water. All I had on that day was a maroon swimsuit, a tattered Red Sox T-shirt, a towel, Coppertone, sunglasses, and a bright smile.
A handsome kid offering a Teflon version of confidence, I guess. I figured that would be enough or I’d be an All-Star in three professional sports. Or maybe become a gifted spy who’d writes wry and disarming travel pieces for Conde Nast. Unfortunately, nothing ever became of any of those idea, either. I’m still not sure how to get comfortable inside my own skin, still figuring it all out at fifty-nine-years-old with schizoaffective disorder thrown into the mix to make it challenging and keeping me and my caregivers on my toes 24/7.
 *          *          *
Gup flew me down to Disney World when I was eight because I was freaking out with random headaches and a witch of a teacher in third grade at Most Blessed Sacrament in Franklin Lakes, New Jersey who oozed disdain and spite my way.  
Gup rescued me like some warrior, and we had lots of fun in Orlando, and we drank large glasses of Tropicana Orange Juice with pulp, and we devoured blueberry pancakes and waffles, and we both swam laps in a surprisingly empty motel pool when we weren’t going for rides in Disney World. 
I dove down to the bottom of the pool every day and felt that rough bottom across my chest and watched Gup swim around from down there. I’d never felt so alive, even when I was holding my breath on the bottom of said pool, looking up and to the world with the gigantic billboards of pretty women in fancy dresses drinking orange juice with pulp, and when I came to the surface finally, the oxygen tasted so damn good, and I felt at peace. Restored somehow. 
Many years later, Gup’s heart attack would steal him away when I was already sinking into the abyss at college, so I never quite got the chance to mourn him. Perhaps, that’s what all this is all about here tonight: Offering a proper prayer for a hero like Charlie McNally, he’d be over a hundred and ten or so by now, and he’d sit me down and say something kind like, 
“D, the best thing everyone can do is live our lives completely and fully. Live, love, laugh. I hope your days are filled with plenty of all three, okay?”
“Thanks,” I’d say. “I love you, Gup.”
“Me, too, pal,” he’d say, and the stage lights dimmed and him and I, well, we hopped on a Pegasus and disappeared into the welcoming sky.