THE e-mail message jumped out from the 80 or so pieces of cyber-spam that confront me each morning. It said, "Before getting into a long-winded haven't seen you for decades, it might be appropriate to find out if you even know who I am. If so, Hi. I am alive and well in Ft. Myers Fl." A message from an
old high school friendIt was signed Terry J. DeBriere.
Just the name of my old high school friend set my mind racing.
I saw Terry sitting in a Piihonua cane field with a beer in his hand, belting out a woefully insincere rendition of "Where Have All The Flowers Gone" in his tone-deaf, bullfrog voice.
I heard his devilish cackle after he convinced me to bet my whole bankroll that my Honda scooter could outrace a Volkswagen Beetle -- and then made a nice profit for himself betting on the Beetle. I felt his fearlessness as he dreamed constantly of riding big motorcycles and flying fast airplanes.
We used to shoot pool in a little parlor in downtown Hilo that fronted illicit games of chance out back. The owner liked having us there to confuse the police.
One night a seedy character from the back room approached as I was lining up a shot and plopped down a $100 wager that I'd miss. I chickened out but Terry, who wasn't much of a pool shooter and didn't have the proverbial two nickels to rub together, told the guy he'd take the shot and the bet. The guy backed off.
I was forced into a fight once with a classmate twice my size and Terry, who was half my size, offered to take my place. I declined, so he became my coach, advising me to jab from a distance until the big guy tired out.
But I was nothing if not a dumb haole. I decided to charge him, absorb his first punch, take him down with an arm lock and beat him to a bloody pulp while he was on the ground.
Terry helped me practice the move despite his reservations. I caught a break when I ducked the big guy's first punch, but the arm lock didn't work and I ended up on the ground with him beating on me. Terry picked me up and took me home muttering, "You should have jabbed."
We went into the pizza business together. Pizza Hut hadn't come to Hilo yet and you couldn't even buy mozzarella cheese in the supermarket to make your own.
Somehow Terry and I got our hands on a 10-pound hunk of cheese and started taking orders. I cooked while Terry delivered. We were doing such good business that it started to feel like work. My floor was deep in flour and there was so much pizza sauce on the walls that the apartment looked like the Manson family had paid a visit. We shut down a step ahead of the Board of Health.
Terry had a brain on him. He'd spin unlikely, convoluted theories that convinced you he was insane. But you'd think about it for awhile and he'd start to make sense. Then you'd become convinced that you were insane.
WE were both invited to leave the public school system the same year, Terry a few months ahead of me. He went to St. Joseph's, the only alternative to Hilo High. When I got booted from Hilo High and went to St. Joe to plead for admittance, the principal turned me down. My father asked if it was because of my religion.
"No," the nun said, "that's not a problem. I have two concerns: Terry DeBriere."
So the short answer to the long-winded question is yeah, Terry, I know who you are. You're on the short list of people in this life I could never possibly forget.