Michael Stanley and Bruce - But Not That Bruce

                                                          

Michael Stanley died yesterday.

Who was Michael Stanley? Only the greatest leader of The Michael Stanley Band who never made it nationally but regularly sold out 1980s Cleveland-area arenas in hours.  He was 72 but forever will feel 35 to us Clevelanders. 

After he slowed down with his band, he hosted some local TV shows and had a longtime gig on WNCX, a Cleveland classic rock station. He also played a few private concerts for benefits around town and more lucrative ones like about two years ago at the House of Blues to celebrate a friend's 60th. We all became 20-years-old that night. It was as if Mick Jagger were playing.

I hate to admit this, but my first thought of hearing of Stanley's passing today wasn't of Michael.  It was of Bruce.

Michael Stanley was my first concert and Bruce was my first date at Northeast Ohio's outdoor Blossom Music Center.  The opening act was Southside Johnny, and to say Bruce and I were very nervous is an understatement.

Now that I have a son, I can only imagine how difficult this evening was for him. Word got to my brother he had a crush, and he asked me to attend.  Bruce was a very kind, shy, smart young man. In actuality, I didn't know him that well - he attended a neighboring Catholic school.  I certainly did not know how to go on a date. No way, no how. 

I remember he picked me up with with his dark-eyes and curly hair in his parent's Lincoln - opened the door for me with an impish smile. And off we went. With my sheltered life and strict parents, I may as well have have been traveling to Antarctica.

It was a hot sticky night and Bruce had managed to snag us great seats. We were incredibly awkward. It was too loud to talk, so we sat there basically listening - not even swaying to the beat.

This has nothing to do with his quality as a date, but everything to do with our sheer terror of "what to do"on a date. We were complete and total rookies and he was a total gentlemen. I remember at one point he put his hand stiffly on my back and all my attention for the entire rest of the night turned from the music to THE HAND. He never moved it.  I never acknowledged it.  

I think we went out to a nice dinner afterwards -again, opening up my car door. There was no kiss at the end of the night. We were just so incredibly awkward and shy.  I don't think he and I "dated" again, if you could call it that.  And there was really no reason. It's as if we both knew we had to use our training wheels and each of us were the ones to do it together.

I did see him a few times after that. He would come to a couple of our high school reunions since he had so many friends at our school. He with that sparkling, dark-eyed smile that exuded gentleness and kindness. And though I hardly saw him between reunions (actually not at all), I did think of him as we all do with our first dates. He went on to become a Notre Dame fanatic, attorney and city prosecutor - probably the gentlest one who ever existed.

But about a year ago, in the early stages of COVID lockdown, I received a FB friend request from him which I immediately accepted. I visited his page and he looked so very happily married with a beautiful, loving family.  I don't know why I didn't send him a message asking how he was doing. Too shy, as usual, I guess. 

And then two weeks later high school friends began posting Bruce had died of a brain tumor. I had no idea he was ill.  I wonder why he "friended" me? Was it to reminisce about his life's own first date and pay a virtual visit one last time?

If I had known, and I had sent him a message, I would have told him that no finer, classier first date existed in the history of first dates. I hope his kids (and wife) know what a gentleman he was - though I am sure they do. I will forever regret not reaching out. 

Today, the entertainer Michael Stanley followed Bruce to the next level. I hope they are both in heaven, Bruce with his hand gently on the back of an innocent sweet girl and Michael playing his brains out.

Life is short. It's the seemingly meaningless memories that both anchor you and leave you sobbing unexpectantly, gasping for air.

Goodbye, Michael. Goodbye, Bruce. Together, you gave me an everlasting life's memory that hot sticky night in the summer of 1981.

(This essay is dedicated to Bruce C's immediate family whom I have never met. You had a good one.)