When the blue monster van roars down Casper Place, it announces Tony’s arrival. Sometimes he’s getting home at one o’clock in the morning, but his entrances during waking hours of the day are much more entertaining.

The blue beast bounces down the street to the beat of his music. It beats deep into the asphalt and vibrates the walls, crescendoing, getting closer, closer. Boom-ba-boom-ba-boom. Now the windows buzz. The full size van, an ‘82 Plymouth Voyager, has 270,000 miles on it. The thing will quit any day, but Tony insists on driving it.  He calls it his “Shaggin’ Wagon” and says “I love it because when people see it, they automatically know I’m there.”

The engine heaves over the curb bump and sputters before Tony finally silences it–and his music. The door creaks open and Tony’s lanky six-foot-two frame easily steps down from the driver seat. He slams the door behind him and as he strides to the house, he appears to talk to himself. On his way to the front door, the mumbling passes the kitchen window and it’s hard to tell, but it sounds like he’s humming. Then his mumbles, broadcast to the whole house, turn out to be his off-key rendition of whatever song was just playing on the radio.

Singing, and inserting a customized hello between song phrases, “Hey now, you’re an All Star–waz up?–get your game on, go, play…,” he heads straight to his room and flips on the radio to the classic rock station.

Sometimes instead of immediately turning on the radio, he picks up his guitar, straps it over his shoulder and strolls through the house, strumming, singing. He plays all the songs by ear, and has even written a few of his own. Favorites in his repertoire are: “Hotel California,” “Free Fallin’,” “Jack and Diane,” and “Time of Your Life.” His family constantly receives unrequested serenades. Once he gets started, he does everything while playing guitar: makes a phone call, checks his e-mail, eats a bite, and tries to carry on conversation.

Tony also embraces his guitar obsession by playing bass for “Fish Out of Water.” As an amateur band, they write their own songs and basically play for fun. “Dude, the guys finally got us a couple gigs next month, you should totally come ‘cause it will be awesome,” he says. Listening to their favorite song “Wendy,” someone might think they sing about a girl they have a crush on. But the last line goes something like “Oh, Wendy, you know that I’m in love with you. You’re always open, even if it’s only the dri-ive through.”

Image is a big deal to this eighteen-year-old high school senior.  Repulsed by what he calls the “pretty-boy look,” he boycotts such preppie stores as Gap, Ambercormbie & Fitch, and Structure. “Sweater-vests, khaki pants, and white collared shirts are a no-no,” he says. “You can’t do all the stuff you need to do and be comfortable in an outfit like that. That’s why I’ll stick to my baggy cargo pants and tee-shirts.”

According to Tony, there is even such a thing as a “pretty-boy” hair style. “Dude, what’s with all these guys and their pretty little hairdos?  They try to look cool by slicking their hair forward and spiking it in front. Then they do the bleached tip thing.” Tony certainly doesn’t look stupid sporting his shaved snow-boarder head. When it gets too long, he pulls out the clippers and shaves it himself.  What exactly is too long? An eighth of an inch. He ends up shaving it as often as every other week.

Lately he has fallen victim to the practice of dyeing his hair wild colors. He lets it get “too long” and then colors it a lovely shade of magenta, orange, or turquoise. Of course it only lasts until he gets tired of his “long” hair and shaves it off. His reason for this behavior is: “I dunno. Just bored, I guess.”

Snow-boarder? Yes, that he is too. In the winter, he jumps at any chance of going up to the mountains with his buddies. Some how, they always manage to finagle a bargain deal for the lift tickets. “Kyle’s so short that we can pass him off as a twelve-year-old and split the cost of two regular tickets between three of us.”

He has even earned a nick name for himself. It started one year when he got a new snow board for his birthday. His dad made him a tee-shirt to go along with the board featuring a typical snow-boarding character complete with shades and beanie. It labeled Tony as “Shreddin’ Ton.” After he wore it around his friends, the title stuck. That was all right with Tony, because “it’s hecka tight to be known as a good snow-boarder.”

One curious aspect of Tony’s personality is his choice vocabulary. He uses words such as hecka, tight, sick, like, kinda, and sucks. Hecka is a California euphemism for the regular English intensifiers really or very. Tight and sick have new meanings when used in Tony’s dialogue. They are adjectives he uses to replace cool. So if, for example, something strikes his fancy, he would say, “That’s tight,” or, “It was sick.” And this is a good thing. In a case of extreme excitement, he would say, “That’s hecka tight,” for emphasis.

The words like and kinda are self explanatory, they are verbal clutter that get inserted to dialogue wherever Tony feels like it. And sucks, as most of us know, does not describe the function of a vacuum. For instance, Tony has to miss going out with some friends because of work. His response, “That kinda sucks.”
Such a situation sucks because Tony’s life is his social life. If he’s not working, he is out with his friends. If he’s not at school, he is out with his friends. And if he’s at home, he is calling his friends to find out what’s going on.

After getting the scoop on his pals, Tony heads out to the monster van again. “Later. I’m goin’ to get Kyle and hang out.” He hops into the van and roars back down Casper Place, probably to return at one o’clock in the morning. Now that’s one hecka tight dude.

*This character sketch of my little brother Tony was written 10 years ago. I pulled it out, dusted it off and read it as a tribute to him at the rehearsal dinner for his wedding a few weeks ago.