Leonard Earl has worn a toupee the entire 27 years he’s been married to my mother. My friends and I always had a suspicion. Perplexed by the absence of a barber. Curious about his graying mustache and aging face forever framed by the permanent jet-black sheen of his lacquered “do.” He never admitted the toupee. Until the cancer.
The myth goes, as told by my mother to my sister to me, that while serving in the Navy in Viet Nam, he somehow contracted an obscure blood disorder of no specific name and the treatment caused his hair to fall out. And it never grew back. So, he bought a man-wig, attached it and never, not once, over three decades, changed it. I mean never.
Today, his body and face have become withered and wrecked from his three-year battle with terminal cancer and, yet, he still rocks his super-suave 1971 Monty Hall “Let’s Make a Deal” toupee.
Go, Len. Leonard Earl. Leonard Earl Massena the Third, my stepdad.
The eternal toupee says everything that means anything about Leonard. He is the essence of a decade that birthed tacky-cool; winged-hair, nut-hugging bellbottoms, stadium rock and custom paint kits on fast cars. He loves his cars, He loves his cool. He currently owns two Cadillacs, two custom GMC “touring” vans and one 1981 red Corvette with t-tops and black leather interior. But, he cannot drive. Driving on morphine might be considered cool. Driving with an oxygen tank and a colostomy bag, not so much.
Len has multiple myeloma, a rare form of cancer that runs through the blood in your bones. The cancer is no longer treatable and, more so than ever, flaunting the affliction of its final ugly stages.
Cancer is a vicious and insatiable thief. Over time, the disease robs you of your favorite things. Steals your masculinity, shrinks your spine, siphons your breath, rusts your automobiles, crumbles your bones and replaces “cool” with “it’s not important.” What is important is waking up. Not getting pneumonia. Smiling. At least once a day, even if you don’t feel like it. Because everyone that loves you is watching. Every second.
I remember an afternoon in high school, before I had earned my driver’s license, accompanying Leonard for a Sunday afternoon drive through East Dallas. Cruising around town in one of his custom cars was his favorite weekend activity. This particular afternoon, we were sporting “Gold Digger,” a hand-painted Chevy truck complete with ground effects, shiny rims and pitch black tinted windows. As we sat at the stoplight at Buckner Boulevard, Len cranked up the stereo. He loves music. Every room in his house and every custom car he owns is carefully equipped with “perfect sound.” I learned at a very young age to never, ever touch the equalizer.
An ambulance siren subtly invaded Gold Digger’s polished and private interior, becoming louder and louder as if it were coming up behind us. I twisted my neck left and then right to spot the emergency vehicle. But there was no ambulance in sight. Just the deserted asphalt of a late Sunday afternoon shopping center and a couple of idling cars nestled next to us at the light. The swoon of the siren effortlessly seamed into the slow, haunting piano prelude of the classic rock song cranking from the speakers. Time evaporated into the slow-hum rev of Gold Digger’s hand-built engine. Len methodically inhaled his Tareyton 100 cigarette and magically exhaled a series of perfect smoke-shaped “O”s. He tapped his flashy gold wedding band against the blonde wood interior of his masterpiece and hummed along to the song. He never looked away from the traffic light or seemed to acknowledge an emergency siren. And he never looked at me or spoke a word, but I knew he just as entranced by this moment as I was. And I knew he was happy. I thought to myself, this is how cool people bond.
“Take the Long Way Home,” by Supertramp. That was the song. Until that day, I had never heard it. This song is Len’s story, I thought. If a man were a song, he would be this one. These days, it seems truer than ever.
When you look through the years
And you see what you could have been
Oh, what might have been
If you had more time
Take the long way home
Take the long way home
I never figured out where the siren came from that afternoon. And I now understand it meant to be a mystery. Leonard Earl is a mystery to me, always has been. So, it is no surprise that an invisible ambulance siren flawlessly crafted its way into the prelude of that beautiful song, transcending a seemingly idle moment into something of invaluable sentiment. There, in his custom truck. Sitting at the longest light in the entire world. Just my stepdad, his perfectly combed coal black hair, and me.
And Supertramp, my new favorite band.
Time redefined itself that afternoon. If only Len could compose those long, lingering moments of ease and escape now. But every flinch is excruciating, every breath a battle.
Last Thanksgiving, beneath the hissing blue lights of the Intensive Care Unit, I watched Len wring the air for oxygen with all his might and in between each gasp, tears would escape his eyes. It was the first time I had ever seen the man cry. Sirens from the adjacent emergency room crooned throughout the otherwise quiet holiday night. I sat next to his hospital bed, holding his hand as my mind drifted to that magical Sunday afternoon and the invisible ambulance siren that I imagined he himself had orchestrated into Gold Digger’s speakers. Clinging to the memory eased the unbearable aching of my heart and helped me stay to connected to a man that I feared was slipping away.
I wasn’t sure that Len would survive that particular trip to the hospital. But, he did. He’s still here. And I when I go home to visit, I often catch myself staring in awe and wonder at his tenacious toupee. I have decided that it hoards super-secret magical powers. It must. For, it has stood the test of time, fashion, cancer and cool. And my heart finds comfort in the theory that as long as that wig of synthetic, sable, suave hair stays stuck to his head, he will always have time to take the long way home.
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Leonard Earl
June 4, 1946 ~ September 18, 2010
