Brotherly Love? Not Yet, but Give Them Time

So here I am, cynically pondering the homoerotic subtext of Sammy Hagar’s incessant rubbing up against his (now former) Van Halen bandmates during the performance of “Poundcake,” when a drunken voice screams into my ear, demanding to be heard over the band and 20,000 equally drunken fans in this hellhole of a dirt pit called the Blockbuster Pavilion.

“There will never be a rock guitar player as great as Eddie Van Halen,” the voice cries out.

This kernel of wisdom is offered by an expert, my younger brother, Andrew, who hasn’t missed a Van Halen show in Southern California since 1981.

I, however, am a neophyte. And as much as I want to chew my brother’s true-believer platitude to bits, I’m rational enough to know that right here, right now, is hardly the time or place to debate the ax-wielding skills of Mr. Bertinelli.

Of course, if I were 16, flush with a brand-new driver’s license, and my brother asked me to chaperon him to Van Halen, I wouldn’t have been so considerate. I would have derisively asked how he could possibly like those talentless bozos and slapped him upside the head. But that would have been impossible: I didn’t have a brother then. I was an only child, surrounded by a coterie of ever-changing step-siblings from my mother’s three marriages.

I met my brother in 1995, when I was 30, but I first learned of him about a dozen years ago. My mother handed me a faded, laminated snapshot of a tightly wrapped newborn child--you know, the kind that look either like raisins or old men, depending on the angle.

“It’s your brother,” she said.

Same mom. Same dad. No prefix. No way! She explained that financial and personal circumstances forced her to give up the child, who was born two years after me.

Over the years I often stared at that photo, holding it up to the light, trying to figure out who he looked like, imagining what it would have been like to grow up together, but never did much else with it.

After my mother died in 1994, I at last vowed to track my brother down. One bored evening, while visiting America Online’s adoption folder, I posted a message with the data I had (date of birth, hospital and the agency that provided new parents for him), and in a matter of days, I received an e-mail from a woman who said she could find him. Four months later, she called me with his parents’ address and phone number. It turns out he grew up in Van Nuys, only a few miles away from me. Another nice Jewish boy from the Valley.

My mind raced. My heart tried to keep up: At last, I thought, someone with whom I could relate, who would understand. Naturally, I assumed our shared biology would produce an intrinsic bond that would overcome the nurturing process.

*

Unfortunately, Andrew didn’t embrace our reunion as eagerly as I anticipated--a month passed before I heard from him. Apparently, he was quite happy with his life and had no interest in learning about his biological family.

We finally met at a downtown restaurant not long after I sent him a letter explaining that I had no expectations (a lie); that I was merely a 2-year-old bystander when the deal went down (true).

Cramming our lives into a few hours, we took turns nervously speed-rapping about youthful hangouts, girls and other regretted indulgences.

We certainly hadn’t lived parallel lives: Andrew had a wife, a new baby and a suburban tract home. He went to trade school and commuted 90 minutes to a data-processing management job. By contrast, I was a university graduate, an editor who lived in a dicey city dwelling with a wounded marriage that would neither live nor die. And, for crying out loud, he worshiped Van Halen, whereas I had more, um, esoteric musical leanings.

But that didn’t stop me: When the band came to town a few months after our initial meeting, the prospect of a hell-raising, hotel-destroying adventure with my new brother seemed irresistible. Boys’ weekend out.

*

After checking into our room at the San Bernardino Motel 6, we lubed for the show by taking turns swigging cinnamon-flavored liqueur from the bottle. At which point my mild-mannered brother suddenly transformed into, well, a wild-eyed Van Halen fan.

He soon began an expletive-filled commentary about O.J., scantily clad women and Hagar’s religion: “He’s a Jew; c’mon, Samuel Hagar?”

He was in his element and on a roll. I, on the other hand, wanted to bury myself in a hole. As the show progressed I became increasingly subdued. The evening, and my brother, were not at all what I expected. Not that I knew what to expect.

This side of Andrew surprised me; I was glad he felt comfortable enough to cut loose, but I began to think that if he were not my brother, he’d be the kind of person I would never befriend. I was being unfairly judgmental, I told myself. Brotherly love is unconditional.

Andrew was too drunk to drive following the show, so I maneuvered his black 1989 Trans Am (what else?) through the snail-like traffic and we began our quest for nourishment.

After cruising through “town,” we settled for beer and a Taco Bell, the haven for wasted suburbanites everywhere, where, after berating a woman for a bad parking job, he alone managed to spend $15--that’s a lot of 59-cent tacos. We ate, we grunted, we passed out.

The next morning, as we gathered our things and prepared to return home, there was little communication between us. Sure, we were burned out, but I also think we were a little disappointed that we didn’t have the hoped-for epiphany. We were brothers, but without a lifetime of experiences behind us, we were merely acquaintances.

*

After the concert, months passed before we spoke at any length, and never about that weekend, as if it were a dirty secret to be packed away in the closet of our past. I became discouraged, overlooking the miracle of finding my brother in the first place. All relationships need time to develop, but I was impatient.

I now realize that our differences are far greater than what we have in common--essentially the man and woman who gave us life. I had hoped to find a flesh-and-blood soul mate, a family tie upon which I could cling and replace my dead mother. It probably won’t happen, but that’s OK.

Over time, I have learned to appreciate the bond that has developed--which, despite his initial reticence, is more a credit to Andrew’s persistence than anything I have done. Still, there are times when he reminds me of my mother. He has the same shy, uncomfortable mannerisms, as if he doesn’t fit well in his own skin. And, come to think of it, my mother and I also had trouble communicating. So maybe we’re soul mates after all.

But I don’t think Mom liked Van Halen. When rumors of David Lee Roth’s return to the band were abuzz this past summer, I didn’t think twice--the first person I called was my brother. We gabbed for an hour about various reunion scenarios, without expectations, without a thought about how fate and America Online had thrown us together.

Just two brothers talking.