John

John Thompson came into my life when I was just 10 years old and he was 17. At that age, he was my foster brother—though to me, he seemed more like a distant figure, someone orbiting the family rather than being fully a part of it. He was the jester in the crowd of my older siblings, Robert and Diane's, friends. His antics were wild, often ridiculous, and sometimes crossed the line into trouble. He smoked weed in my parents' bathroom, trying to mask the smell with a heavy dose of strawberry spray. My sister Margaret and I quickly learned that the sweet, fruity scent was a dead giveaway that John was up to no good.

The first real memory I have of John is when he broke his ankle on the farm. He was goofing off on a hay wagon—how exactly, I can’t recall—but the break was bad. It took an hour to get him to the hospital, during which he screamed every obscenity I knew and taught me a few new ones. My mom blushed furiously, trying to shield Margaret and me from the barrage of curse words. That was my introduction to John Thompson.

Not long after, John left our home and started working as a bartender. For a while, he faded into the background of my life. Between the ages of 10 and 15, I didn’t see him much. But when I turned 15, John reentered my life in a way that changed me. After my brother Robert passed away, John stepped in—perhaps unknowingly—as the big brother I desperately needed. He had matured, at least in part, out of his earlier clownishness and emerged as one of the coolest guys in our neighborhood. As the most popular bartender at the most popular bar in town, John was magnetic. Women from the suburbs flocked to his bar, and by John's own count, he slept with hundreds of them. I believed him. He had this way of making women feel safe and cool, then making them laugh. Sometimes he’d take them rollerblading—a simple, fun activity that just seemed to work for him.

John’s charm was undeniable, but there was a depth to him as well. He could be tough when necessary, but more often he was the laid-back, smooth-talking guy who made me feel important just by being around him. Despite my moodiness and tendency to withdraw, John saw something in me and took me under his wing. He introduced me to his friends, took me along to bars and parties, and even set me up with girls on more than one occasion. When I was with John, I felt like I was somebody—like I belonged to the cool crowd. It drove my parents crazy. John was everything they didn’t want me to be around. He drank, smoked weed, and worked at a bar—three strikes in the eyes of my father, a minister, and my devout mother. But no amount of disapproval from them could keep me away. I suspect John enjoyed that, knowing how much my parents disapproved of him.

John also had impeccable taste in music, and he shared that with me in a way that still shapes my listening habits today. When I turned 15, he bought me six albums that became the soundtrack of my teenage years: Bob Dylan's *Blood on the Tracks*, Michael Franks' *The Art of Tea*, Nilsson's *Nilsson Schmilsson*, Frank Zappa's *Apostrophe*, The Rolling Stones' *Let It Bleed*, and one more that has slipped from memory. I played those records until I knew every lyric, singing along in my bedroom, where John's influence echoed long after the music stopped.

We spent a lot of time together—rollerblading, swimming at hotels, and just hanging out. John smoked weed and drank, and though I didn’t join him in smoking because of my allergies, I drank whatever he offered. He was unpredictable in the best way, turning even the most mundane outing into an adventure. But John also had a darker side. He could be the life of the party, making everyone laugh and feel included, but there were times when he withdrew completely. He’d lock himself away in his apartment, getting stoned and sinking into a deep depression. When John was in one of those moods, everyone knew to leave him alone. His emotional swings were hard to understand, but they seemed rooted in something deeper than just the highs and lows of life.

John’s childhood was a mystery to me for the most part, but I knew enough to realize it hadn’t been easy. His parents, who owned a bar, both died young from alcoholism. That kind of loss must have left scars. I never knew exactly how they treated him, but I imagine being raised by two alcoholics shaped him in ways he never fully expressed. By his 40s, John was on the same destructive path, drinking heavily until a doctor warned him he had to quit or die. He managed to get sober, though not without some slip-ups along the way. He replaced alcohol with weed, which mellowed him out, but the emotional turbulence never entirely disappeared.

Around the time he turned 50, John cut off ties with our family. He never explicitly told me we were done, but living 2,500 miles away made it easy for him to distance himself. I think he felt betrayed when I left Detroit. I wrote him a letter once, pouring out my feelings and telling him how much he meant to me. He called after receiving it, but instead of the connection I had hoped for, he told me to never do that again. It was me, he said, who had left him. That hurt, and I carried guilt for a long time after.

Years later, John showed up at my father’s funeral, strung out on cocaine and weed. He claimed that during his childhood in our community, he was abused. I didn’t know what to believe. It was a wound John carried with him until the end, a bitterness that cut him off from the family he once embraced.

In his final years, John found some of his blood siblings and moved to Florida, where they cared for him until he passed away. When I heard the news, I cried—not just for the loss of the man who had once been like a brother to me, but for the life he had lived. John had so much to give, but the cruel hand he’d been dealt in life had driven him away from the people who loved him. He found love once, with a woman who died of cancer after a few short years together. Somehow, he found a way to blame our family for that, too.

John Thompson was a man of contradictions—charming yet troubled, generous yet angry, loved by many but ultimately isolated. I mourn him still. Every time I listen to Bob Dylan's *Blood on the Tracks*, I remember the good times we shared, the laughter, the music, and the way he made me feel like the coolest kid in the neighborhood. Despite everything, John will always be a good man in my heart.