October 20th.

Every year, the same day.

Tom Petty’s birthday.

When I think about Tom Petty, my first introduction was riding in my dad’s white Ford truck. Sometimes the cab, sometimes the bed. Can’t do that anymore. People drive like maniacs and the roads aren’t as open as they used to be. Probably shouldn’t have done it back then either, but my brothers and I were high on the hog for a taste of what felt like freedom.

I remember specifically the songs “I Won’t Back Down,” “Refuge,” and “Last Dance with Mary Jane” though at 10 years old or so I wasn’t quite grasping the metaphors.

This is probably 1998, 1999 or so and admittedly I wasn’t too concerned with Tom Petty’s birthday. I enjoyed the music he made when it was presented to me but it just as well could have been muzak at the time. Something that someone else chose for me.

Somewhere along the way, however, I did choose Tom Petty whether he liked it or not.

It wouldn’t be until much later in life when his birthday would cross my mind.

Some time ago I wrote a little story called “You Just Gotta.”

The story has nothing to do with Tom Petty so if you’re reading this and curious for more information about Tom Petty, I suggest you look elsewhere.

This story is about my friend Ethan, the protagonist of “You Just Gotta.”

I’m omitting the last name intentionally because Ethan shares a little bit of a Dale Gribble complex and is very much into his online privacy.

Though if you were to Google his full name, you’d likely find him in the comment section of a guitar forum trash-talking others’ theories. His full name on display, perhaps an oversight and you might be thinking, “What an asshole!” but the man can play and has encyclopedic knowledge to back up his rhetoric and theory.

He told me about the time he played with Chuck Berry’s backing band, He told me that Chuck Berry would show up, get a briefcase of money, play a show and would head to the next show via Cadillac. I believe he played with him, he’s got the credentials to do such a thing but with Ethan, one of Brooklyn’s finest unknown storytellers who knows if the rest was true. I choose to believe it regardless.

The lowcountry is separated by a number of bridges which is further divided into divisions of class. Real mansions, McMansions, average homes (for far more than average prices) and shacks can be seen within a thirty minute drive of each other that is of course depending on the logjam traffic no matter what time of day.

After the closure of our shared workspace, these bridges divided us. Both of us found our ways through. It actually ended up working out pretty nicely for Ethan who eventually worked for Boeing for a stint. I on the other hand might have well as shoveled shit at the shit factory while I tried to keep a roof over my head.

Nevertheless, as the boards of time went up we came prepared with our crowbars.

A text here, a text there. A call was rare but every so often necessary.

Since our joint employment had ended, Ethan joined a new cover band.

A perfect excuse for me to visit and drink a few beers. At this point I had shredded off most of the Pabst Blue Ribbons but was more than happy to cheers with an old friend.

I’d never really understood the point of a cover band. They always felt corny to me. Maybe it was Ethan, maybe it was the weight loss and newfound confidence that helped change my mind because when I let go of this notion, my world opened up at least just a little bit.

Every so often, Heather and myself would venture out to one of the bars that Ethan and his band were playing at. Get a few drinks in me, play some “Uptown Funk” and I’m cruising. The worst dance moves you’d ever seen.

After a while, those boards of time would get nailed up and the bar visits became few and far between. It’s hard to recall exactly what I was doing at the time but I was working at potentially one to three different furniture stores and/or a screen printing shop.

One thing I know I could count on was every so often a dad, dirty, or plain old crappy joke in my text messages.

Every once in a while I’ll be at a thrift store or wherever and see something that reminds me of Ethan.

Two pictures I’d sent him recently were a wooden ring toss game, a tabletop version similar to the one we’d play at our bar on smoke breaks. The other, and of course the most absurd, was some sort of device that turns a watermelon into a keg. I kid you not.

The many hours during our shipping shifts, Ethan would spin a yarn a mile long about almost anything. Oftentimes the story would have to do with booze including the times when, without this previously mentioned device, he had made his own booze-filled watermelon. No tap required just hollow it out a little bit, let it soak and enjoy your day at Folly.

Though less of a story and more of an anecdote, Ethan always claimed that Hooters off Rivers Avenue had the best  Guinness draft. Just like you, I thought, “bullshit, you’re going there for the views.”

Needless to say, one year, as I would every year on Tom Petty’s birthday, I wished Ethan a happy birthday and asked if he had any plans.

He said Tiffany had given him a gift card to Hooters and he was up there by himself. With both of us alone individually, I made my way out there and wouldn’t you know it, the first and only time I’ve ever been to a Hooters, he was right. The draft Guinness was delicious. I don’t know how beer science works but goddamn it was good. The only drawback is that when a waitress or bartender or whomever I was speaking to said “Did you want a small or Big Daddy?” Having to announce that I do in fact want a “Big Daddy” of Guinness had to be one of the most innocent yet uneasy things I’ve ever confessed.

Right before I sent Ethan the picture of the watermelon keg device on the thrift store shelf, it was Tom Petty’s birthday again so of course I wished Ethan happy birthday and asked how he was.

I’d been gone from Charleston for 6 years. I’d visit every so often but due to those damn bridges and traffic, it made it more and more difficult to see everyone I’d like to see.

After my well-wishes, Ethan thanked me promptly and followed up to my question with a “Not so good.”

In proper Ethan fashion with an unwarranted sense of optimism he explained further that he had been diagnosed with cancer and was set to undergo 6 months of chemotherapy but assured me he was in good hands thanks to Tiffany and her medical friends.

He said he was miserable but so far so good before correcting himself and saying “so far no worse.”

He told me he had quit drinking.

I said “Good to hear.”

Three months later I sent him the picture of the watermelon keg device and told him that it reminded me of the story he told me.

He replied.

“Good times.”

In April, admitting to myself that I was a little behind catching up with him, I sent him a text message.

“How ya holding up?”

I never received a response.

I felt hollow.

I immediately Google Ethan’s full name. The scathing guitar posts come up but nothing else.

Somehow, someway a different yet familiar name pops up. My curiosity gets the best of me as I read not Ethan’s but another man’s obituary.

At the bottom, this man who I had never met though knew his kin had been preceded in death by Ethan.

Air flows through my already hollowed core manifesting into debauchery-filled images in my head.

Death is such an odd thing.

There will be no more two dollar tall boys of Pabst or Guinness on draft. No more trivia nights. No more tiki toss and no more stories of Brooklyn.

There will be memories of these events no matter how polished or tarnished.

There will be Ethan, who lives in the ether.

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