unorthodox (ʌnˈɔːθəˌdɒks) — adj not conventional in belief, behaviour, custom, etc.
I haven’t decided whether he would have liked this nickname or not, had I thought of it while he were still alive. He would have humored me I suppose. He was kind like that. I have had many somber hours since Dennis passed, and through all the sadness I find myself smiling. A dichotomy I know, but I simply cannot help it. The more I think of him, the sadder it makes me, yet the funnier the memories become. I know I am not alone in this quagmire. I can feel you all here with me. When Dennis was around, the world was a funny place. And if you needed Dennis around, he would be there immediately. He was generous and thoughtful. He was loving and gracious. Oh, and he was also the most unorthodox man I have ever known. Here are some unorthodox Dennisisms. Please feel free to add to them as I know you have some.
Dennis came to play on our softball team sponsored by O’Brien’s Irish Pub on Wilshire. We sucked, but they took it rather seriously anyway. After a bit of coaxing, Dennis came out to give it a go. Now Dennis just seemed like that guy that probably never really excelled at ball sports anyway. I didn’t know him as a boy so I am only guessing. But here he was and I was happy. He stepped from his metallic blue convertible and he was a ballplayer. He caught the attention of the team almost immediately. His cap was flat on top, not round, and the bill seemed large and crooked as though it had been taken out of an abandoned box and bent back into shape. It was a hat from the 20’s, or perhaps a fishing hat, but certainly not of the standard of this pseudo softball machine. And although I don’t recall it, I am sure his mitt was flat and hard. But what really caught everyone’s attention was what he was carrying under his arm. Dennis approached and laid against the fence, right next to the $200.00 titanium ultra-light power bats, an old, splintered, taped at the handle wooden bat that was most likely his father’s. The men all looked at one another and slowly approached the bat like it was an artifact brought from Cooperstown. Everyone picked it up, gave it a swing, then passed it on while they checked their hands for splinters or tape goo. Dennis was instantly nicknamed “Wonderboy.” And as an aside, his first time up to bat, he sprinted to first base and, his own words now, “Blew out both my thighs.” He wrapped them both tightly in Ace bandages and limped about for a couple of weeks. That was his only at bat as it was the only game he went to.
We played football on the beach one day out in front of the Casa Del Mar Hotel where most of us worked at the time. Tackle no less. We knew better, but let’s just say we always knew better. Now in football there is a ball and as I already mentioned, Dennis and balls, well… I am not sure how it happened as I was pretty knocked around myself, but there was a ferocious hit. Many in fact. Later that evening Dennis showed up to work with the aforementioned Ace bandages this time wrapped tightly around his cracked ribs. His finger was broken, at least one, taped tightly to another finger with something very unofficial holding them in place. I think it was a stick or a piece of metal from a bin in his garage. And unless my memory escapes me, his face was sand-burned to the third degree. I cannot remember what was covering the wound, but I assure you it was not a Bandaid. His father was a doctor. Dennis new what he was doing.
If his back hurt, he hung from the tree in his back yard. By his feet. I tried it once and afterwards felt like I needed a specialist to reconfigure me. He swore by his gravity boot therapy, even though he had back spasms that landed him in a wheelchair. That was before me and now I am left to imagine what his wheelchair looked like. Dennis wore glasses with one of the arms broken off. Dennis wore the same work shoes for almost twenty years because they were formed to his feet and held a shine. He was an expert of the beach and from his trunk came everything but the shower to rinse your feet. Nobody did the beach better than Dennis. And he began running Marathons in his late forties. Who does that? If something was broken, Dennis could fix it. That is, of course, unless it had anything to do with technology. He resisted absolutely everything that came after the turn of this century. He wanted it simple and technology was not. He had pencils and an answering machine. He had Call Waiting but he adamantly opposed it. He was last to get a cell phone or a computer and he never learned email. He simply did not want to and if he did not want to do something, he wouldn’t. Just like that. He was a relic. He was old school. He was a classic. That’s what he was.
We are left only to remember him now. He was a great friend and I loved him. Thank you everyone who helped him at the end. He deserved it. We all know he would have done it for us. I hope there is a fossil of Dennis to be discovered. That would be nice.