Ballad of the Moose

Reflections on a remarkable ordinary life

His actual name is Marc, but when we met in sixth-grade he was known as La-La: La-La Lacourse. He was always getting tripped, or knocked down, ridiculed and beat on, and then he would lie writhing in pain in the middle of the school corridor with glasses askew on his face.

I pitied him at first but then we became friends. I liked him because he seemed to know what he was — a thief and a liar. When not laid out he had this wry, shit-eating grin I myself could never pull off. Like he was up for anything. He stole, I suppose, because others had stolen from him. He lied because that’s what thieves do.

Not that he was good at it. Thieving, that is. He was brazen, careless. He and I fished out coins from the shallow wishing-wells at the Nashua Mall, then headed into the stores to steal more. One time he emerged from a sporting goods store flipping a brand new baseball in his hand. A real show-off. The store manager pulled him back in and called his parents.

His father was a baker at the Yum-Yum Shoppe near the mall. I would sleep over at his house during summer, and then we’d rise at two-thirty in the morning to go with his father and help with the baking. It seemed insane for anybody to rise at two-thirty in the morning, but we did it. I would scrub sheets and pans, mostly. Eventually his father started paying him. Then Marc would rise at three or four in the morning and ride his bike the dark fifteen miles down Route 3 to the bakery.

He slept over at my house only once. He showed up on his bike in our driveway one summer day with his sleeping bag in a backpack. He said his parents had let him take a little vacation. He stayed for a couple of days, amusing us all with a running count of how many glasses of milk he drank. Then my sister overheard him talking quietly upstairs on the phone, and gathered he had run away from home and had spent the first couple of nights in the woods. Concerned, my sister told my father, who then called Marc’s mother before sending him home. He never mentioned why he ran away.

He was a little guy but ordinarily a loud talker. His whole family talked loudly. They shouted, actually. I always thought my hearing might be damaged after leaving his house. One time his parents stopped in at my house to meet my parents, and while Mr. Lacourse stood there in the kitchen, shouting, our pet beagle stood directly before him, barking and howling at this loud stranger. That didn’t stop Mr. Lacourse from telling everybody what a good friend I was to their Marky.

For a while his house was like my second home. His parents were always nice to me, if a bit harsh with their own five children, especially the three boys. I’d eat dinner there, Mrs. Lacourse telling me to just grab whatever I wanted because shy people went hungry at their house. I’d always been taught to ask politely for things to be passed at the table, and had to force myself to do otherwise. After dinner his grandmother and grandfather, who were not very loud, would come over and then we all played penny-ante cards at the big table. It was fun; nobody got upset when they lost. There was no reason to get upset: the pot was just a bunch of loose change. Marc always gave me some coins to play with from a big jar of change he would bring to the table. It seemed everyone there, except me, had vast amounts of change to play with.

After the game, Marc and I usually went upstairs to his room. Once, his mother stopped him as we headed up, wanting to know the details of some trouble he was currently in. Marc, caught in his own web and searching for a way out, removed his glasses and rubbed his face, lined and haggard even then, before fabricating an answer. I thought That’s him, the real guy behind the mask… The guy who especially liked the song “Behind Blue Eyes,” which was about “telling only lies.” Not for the last time, I found myself feeling sorry for him.

During eighth grade, a few of us found a seldom-used janitor’s closet to play cards in. The betting quickly got out of hand. Marc and a couple of others would get worked up and started using IOU’s. Twenty, fifty, a hundred dollars. Then, out of spite, the loser would bring in a ton of pennies as partial payment. Once, a guy partially paid Marc in quarters that he’d cut in half with a hacksaw.

After eighth grade we both enrolled at a Catholic high-school, where we tried out together for the freshman football team, that everyone who tried out made it. We practiced full-contact with the varsity squad and it was extreme violence. Us boys amongst peers that were nearly men. I didn’t last very long. Marc stuck it out for the entire season, and even got to dress for one varsity game. He was christened “Moose” by some of the varsity players, and for the remainder of high-school, plus a while afterward, that was his name.

That first year someone informed him that he’d set the record for most detentions by a freshman. It quickly became a point of pride. I think he liked the attention; at least he wasn’t getting beat up. He kept trying to add to his record, and was usually successful. Sophomore year, a few of us had to take a city bus downtown after school and we’d peruse the bookstore located at one end of Manchester Plaza Mall while waiting for our ride… Marc and I soon realized security was non-existent, and started a friendly competition to see who could steal the most sports books, which Marc went on to win handily. He was just way more committed than I was. Years later, he had all those books set up nicely on a bookcase in the TV room of his house. I’d visit and look through them, ask to borrow one or two, and get a little kick in knowing I was one of the few people in the world who knew where they came from.

He enlisted in the Army a year or so after graduation. We got together occasionally whenever he was home on leave. We shared a bottle of wine once over dinner at a nice restaurant. We’d been driving around in my car, and instead of stopping at Burger King or Subway went into this nice place. Sharing that bottle of wine over a nice dinner was one of the first times I actually felt grown up. He may not have felt the same way, having already seen more of the world than I ever would.

Marc became a drill sergeant before being honorably discharged. He claimed to not enjoy being a drill sergeant, which surprised me: I thought he would have liked all the yelling.

Following his discharge from the Army, Marc found a job making deliveries for a restaurant and bakery supplier. He even recommended me for a job, and since I was driving a taxi cab at the time and hating it, I signed on. Marc trained me to drive the big truck, and soon I had a commercial licence. It was a good gig: free coffee, donuts, pastries at the bakeries; free soda and subs or slices of pizza at some of the restaurants. It was sweet delivering to the beach establishments; all of the girls checking you out in the big truck.

The owner of the company had a unique policy. Say you needed something for home — a large box of spaghetti, a can of sauce, a block of cheese, a turkey breast — you were allowed to take it from the warehouse. The understanding was “Just don’t go crazy.” Well, Marc went crazy. He’d back his car in to one of the loading docks when the night crew was there and load up. Eventually, one of the salesmen spotted him during the day at a bakery along his route selling product off his truck for cash. Both of these pieces of information got back to the owner, who fired him in a rage.

In the early 90s, Marc had a dog, a Siberian Husky named Sapphire. She would bark and cry as I arrived and then again when I left. She had her own little compound in the backyard. Marc didn’t seem to pay her much attention other than telling her to be quiet. I assume he fed her. It reminded me of Sasha, the small dog his family used to own, who I would pet and scratch behind the ears whenever we went out to the backyard. Sasha on her chain used to love it when I scratched behind her ears. Marc and his brothers couldn’t understand why I did that. They said she was dirty. Admittedly, I was a bit high and mighty then, having just begun to fancy myself as a writer. The plight of all living things concerned me. Plus, I like dogs. They’re pack animals; it’s cruel to keep them separate like that all the time. I didn’t say anything to Marc, but vowed not to see him as much as I had been.

Several years went by. Then, he happened to marry my wife’s older sister (his third go-round), who’d been through a difficult divorce of her own and had two young children at home. Her ex-husband was a total flake, and Marc fit in nicely as a father-figure to the two kids. They all called him “Teddy” even his new wife. Eventually I joined in on the Sunday afternoon basketball games. I’d bring along my daughter so she could play on the sidelines with her cousins. Marc’s own grown daughters played in the games and both were pretty good. Marc was always point-guard: fearless chucking it up anytime from downtown. I was more of a banger under the boards, but I still had a sweet jump-shot whenever open on the wing. It was fun, but took a toll on my knees, which had bothered me on and off for years.

Then one of his own knees started giving him trouble. He said it was from climbing in and out of the truck delivering airgas canisters to hospitals and doctors’ offices all day long. An operation was scheduled, but then his whole leg went numb while on his route in Boston. He was rushed by ambulance to an emergency room where a battery of tests were done.

Stroke? Heart attack? Sciatic nerve damage in his back? None of these turned out to be the case. His doctor back in New Hampshire thought it might be the knee, and suggested going ahead with the operation. Over Christmas, before the surgery, Marc told me he didn’t feel right at all. He was standing in their living room with his back to the warm fireplace, and, truthfully, didn’t look well, although he never really had. But now, he looked worse.

Finally he received a CAT scan which determined that he had a brain tumor. A large mass in the back of his head. His wife called and said he had been having seizures, severe tremors throughout his body, but they couldn’t operate because there weren’t any neurosurgeons available. When the seizures got worse and medication no longer helped, he finally had the operation. Afterward his wife was told the tumor had tentacles. They got most of it, but it would grow back, and they couldn’t be sure if or how much permanent brain damage he’d suffered. They would have to wait until he woke up to know for sure.

He still hasn’t woken up; not fully. It’s been over two weeks since the surgery, and he’s hardly opened his eyes. He does move around in bed, and tries to pull at the tracheostomy tube coming out of his throat. A good sign; although his right hand is now fastened down to keep him from doing that until he can breathe on his own. His knee is checked regularly for any post-operative infection. Ordinarily he would have been encouraged to walk on it. I’m sure he would have sooner than later.

He whispers occasionally in response to somebody yelling something at him. During a visit I asked him: “What’s up…?” He kind of rolled his head, frowned, and quietly replied, “Nothin’.” That made me feel good. Same old Marc almost.

What he needs to do now is work a miracle, because the prognosis is not good. The longer he stays under, the less chance of any recovery.

I wonder where he is right now. Does he think this is all just a dream? Does he remember why he’s here, or is that part of his brain gone?

It was his sad and reflective side though, that really got to me. It was the most beautiful part of him. The songs he loved — ”Behind Blue Eyes,” “Tuesday Afternoon,” “Losing My Religion” — always touched me. They revealed how he really felt.

Why did life grind him down so much? I wonder if he himself even knew. Maybe, after all, he didn’t know who he was. Or maybe he did know, and didn’t like that person.

I feel like I know him better than anyone. And if he does die, I might be asked to say something at his funeral. And if I am asked I won’t say most of these things, but these are the things I remember.