The Cousin I Never Knew

Bobby Fried was a cousin on my mother’s side. We interacted irregularly until we were in our early thirties. We had adjacent camp bunks for one summer week in 1950. When our counselor tossed my mail short of my bunk I reached over Bobby’s bunk to get the stuff and Bobby punched me in the mouth, breaking a tooth. I never found out why.

We were eighteen when we went to Miami in June. Clever right? We meet two girls and Bobby immediately went for the prettier chick. Our combined score: 0.

I was married at 23. My mom invited her cousin, Bobby’s dad, and family, to the wedding. Bobby asked if he could take a bottle of wine. I told him it was my new father-in-law who bought the booze. Bobby said he did not know the guy and would I ask. I said no.

At thirty we exchanged visits. I saw him, and his British wife, in Santa Rosa, California.  He stayed with us for a week, when I lived in Honolulu. He was a working abstract artist, who did album covers for big named rock groups. I had a lighting store. We had a terrific time, aided by some fine Maui Wowi.

We were thirty-two when I called his wife to confirm Bobby had died of heart failure. Two weeks earlier he had his first big show. It was at the Brooklyn Art Museum. The critics were merciless.