Scrolling through the contacts in my phone the other day

I looked down at his name.

He looked back at me and said “don’t”.

“Don’t even think about deleting my ass”

This made me wonder if I could record a convincing impression

on his voicemail. “This is Sterling, I can’t talk right now because

I have shuffled off this mortal coil. But leave a message.

I’ll try to get back to ya.”

I was Felix to his Oscar when we lived together.

My need to control the tiny pieces of life

were ignored and overwhelmed by his dis-order.

And when that chaos and that organization intersected

It made a strange kind of whale song. There was something

About it that was beautiful and something about it

That was alien. It was a uniquely wonderful place to be.

Anyone whoever made music with Sterling, you knew this place.

Now we wrap it in some silence

And in that silence, some solace.

That we were mystics together.

That we were misfits together.

I.

Sterling and I worked on cars. Not that he had a great aptitude for mechanics,

rather, he had a curiosity about it. I had an aptitude built from necessity. We were poor, we were young. We had places to be.

Our approach was simple. He would hover and watch me disassemble something

and when I needed muscle, I would hand him the wrench and remind him “righty-tighty, lefty-loosy”.

When my father died, my POS was a 1973 Volvo station wagon. The true beauty of this vehicle was that it had enough storage space to load-in the gear for almost any small ensemble. On the day of the memorial service, my wife Kim, Sterling and I needed to travel from Simi Valley to Santa Paula. We packed up the volvo with gear and casseroles and headed up the 101. Just before we got to the junction of the 126 Fwy, the throttle cable on the Volvo snapped. We coasted to the shoulder of the busy freeway and for a few minutes tried to find a way to McGiver the situation, all for naught. There we stood with traffic whizzing past, the gig was to begin in half an hour, and then… we were saved by a good Samaritan.

She pulled up behind us in a 1969 orange VW beetle. She had a car full of kids that were bouncing like beebees in a mayonnaise jar.  Without rolling down the window all the way she peeked out the driver’s window and said  in a whiskey voice: “Wait a minute, let me go drop my kids off, I’ll be right back.” We watched her swerve back into traffic and disappear down the freeway barely staying in a single lane. I looked at Sterling. He looked back at me, and simply said: “Strange Fruit”.

Moments later she re-appeared as if her car had been tied to a string spinning around a maypole. She was wired out of her mind. Thin as paper and bat-shit crazy. She popped open the trunk and doors and we shoveled the cargo from the family station wagon into the tiny bug, all the while reciting the rosary under our breath.

The snapshot of the bug filled with funerary detritus obscured even Sterling who had somehow wedged himself in. Off we sped down the freeway toward our destination, utilizing all available lanes, praying the Rosary and listening to the driver tell us about her heroin addiction and her need to get on methadone.

We arrived at the funeral home, unpacked, played the gig, made it home and proceeded to get high as hell. As we sat on the couch without much to say he took a long drag on a Marlboro and said: – “Strange fruit”.

This was the single event that secured in my mind the eternal nature of the soul.

II.

If only I had a photograph. I wouldn’t even need to write this story down if I just had a damn photograph. The problem was twofold. It took two steady hands to perform the feat that the photo would clearly show. And, we were always laughing our asses off like schoolgirls. Yea, giggly little school girls.

So in the absence of the photograph I must do my best to paint a photo with words and ask that you engage your imagination to get the picture.

My son was born Douglas Franklin Warrick a fine baby with a fine name and well, an unusual condition. While his baby face was beautiful and round and chubby, we discovered a simple manipulation of the facia that resulted in a visage that was just, wet-your-pants funny.

One night at home, just we three – Sterling and me and baby were seated on the couch under the picture window with baby in my lap facing me. Sterling stared at the baby with the curiosity of a sculptor and then with deliberation placed his hand at the top of the baby’s head just at the hairline. Gently he pulled down watching the pudgy baby flesh buckle into soft doughy rolls. Until, the baby unharmed, looked exactly like an American bloodhound.

We laughed our asses off. Sterling called him “Mole Man” and it became our favorite thing to do. A constant source of amusement and a keen parlor trick for anyone that we might encounter. We had a pretty good run with it too until the baby grew up.

It’s worth noting that the mother of the baby was never amused.

III.

When we were in the opera program at Cal State Northridge, Sterling had helped me replace the engine in my wife’s Honda. You remember those tiny little cars from the early 80’s that got great mileage? Well, I had found a supplier of imported replacement motors. If your Honda wore out, you just popped out the motor and stuck a used one in. All for about $300 bucks as I recall.

One day in opera rehearsal a young lady from the chorus was telling us about her Honda and how it was on its last legs. Of course we had to impress her with our superhuman capabilities as opera singing mechanics. We were bound by a special code of chivalry that somehow included oil changes.

When we told her that we could come to her rescue and perform the same operation that we had done on Kim’s car, of course she was all-in. She called her dad using a telephone connected to a wire and he offered to cover the cost, so Sterling and I set to work.

On a hot Saturday in the valley we literally yanked the motor out of a car with only hand tools and replaced it with a better motor from some disreputable importer. It took hours and hours and we were beat-up like bad dogs. By the time dusk was falling we were tightening down the last few bolts. A turn here, a tweek there, insert key, and she fired up and ran like a suckling kitten. We struck a pose, hands on hips.

Because of the code, we received no reward or recompense and would not have accepted if offered. Still posing, hands on hips.

We handed the young damsel the keys and instructed her that our work here was done, but that she needed to drive down to the Chevron station and top off the radiator before she drove too far.

We got into Sterling’s Honda station wagon and drove off, heads held high, back to our native land. The next day at rehearsal our damsel was once again distressed.

She told us that she did as we instructed – and filled the radiator with water but then on the way home smoke started billowing from the hood and the motor came to a grinding halt. We were aghast! What could we have done? What connection could we possibly have gotten wrong? What hose misplaced? What belt gone missing? Quick we said, you must show us.

We dashed to her apartment as soon as rehearsal was over to assess the damage. We arrived at her apartment two blocks away and popped the hood. Everything looked in place…we checked, we double checked. Everything perfect, and yet the motor had seized up tighter than grannie’s knickers. We paused in deep and collective thought and then Sterling with a detective’s precision asked her to come over and point to…wait for it…the radiator.

The diminutive soprano slowly approached and pointed a slender finger at the valve cover. Specifically, to the oil filler cap.

In slow motion now, Sterling asked if that was the hole she used to fill the radiator. She said it was.

Sterling swore that day never to marry. For me, it was too late.

IV.

This is not my story to tell because I was not an actual witness to this encounter, but it was told often at parties and even in the hallways of CSUN, so while there is no first hand recording of this brief event, I will recount it as it was told to me.

This is the story of Sterling’s arrival on campus and his first recorded entrance in the Music Department. Sterling was studying with Kurt Allen on the second floor of the music building and arrived for his first voice lesson. At the appointed time, and certain that the sounds of singing from inside the studio had ceased, Sterling knocked.

Mind you that no one in the studio had yet encountered Sterling. And think for a moment what image the name, if unknown to you might conjur. Sterling Wesley Branton Jr. Please accept my apologies if you are of the Branton clan and are reading this essay, but to the casual listener, the name conjured an image of a little preppy guy with a bowtie, maybe even glasses and a pocket protector. Sterling Wesley Branton Jr?

I am sure that all three inside the studio had each fallen upon their own image of what this student might look like, but all were in agreement that this name had to belong to a little Lord Fauntleroy character probably with a bad complexion. The door opened.

Sterling entered, the fragrance of his last cigarette clinging to his coat. His ponytail well past the midpoint of his back. A black full beard and bearing of a mercenary. He was straight from the wilds of Santa Cruz where universities were revolutions waiting to happen. He towered into the room in his boots at 6 feet 4 inches. His chest was as big as a bull’s. His biceps were bigger around than a grown man’s thigh. He stood there, behind smokey glasses and in a resonant baritone announced his presence.

The teacher Kurt Allen steadied himself on the shoulder of the accompanist at the piano. The freshman student whose lesson just ended, fainted and was never seen again.

Then, in a soft and timid voice, the accompanist Jim Ruggerello looked Sterling up from feet to face and asked:

“Excuse me, did you eat Sterling Branton?”

V.

This is not another story but an explanation of the title of this essay. Bootiesatva.

Somewhere along the line, Sterling told me the story of “Battling Bootie Branton” and rather than attempting to recall the details, let it suffice to say that I was quick to appropriate the Bootie part. He became known to my kids as Uncle Bootie.

Bodhisattva  refers to a vow taken by Mahayana Buddhists to liberate all sentient beings. One who takes the vow is nominally known as a Bodhisattva. This can be done by venerating all Buddhas and by cultivating supreme moral and spiritual perfection, to be placed in the service of others.

Uncle Bootie + Bodhisattva = Bootiesatva

So gentle friends, if you ever find yourself stranded on a freeway and an orange beetle pulls up and offers to help…accept the ride. It might be him, and you could be in for a treat. Novis Fructus. Strange Fruit.