Memories of Mike (Extracts
from The Niche of Time and Finder’s Keep)
On an impulse (no doubt
prompted by my relating the anecdote about Mike and his proposed whale story),
I decided to gather ‘every little factoid and reminiscence of Mike from Niche
of Time and see what sort of biography it would make.’ I spent over four
hours last night doing so, and two hours this morning getting stuff off Finder’s
Keep as well, but it could be said to be years in the making. I’ve probably
missed some things by sloppy labeling, but I’ve purposefully excluded stories
where Mike is more of a peripheral presence and his own writings such as
stories and poems and also mere notifications that ‘Mike used to own this book’
if no further anecdotal material is attached. But ‘the result is like viewing a
portrait by flashes of lightning or a biography told by the cut-up method.’
Nothing is chronological; large elements of his life (such as his devotion to
Hemingway) are only hinted at, but they are recognized. I was surprised how
many times I’ve retold how he got me my first copies of The Lord of the
Rings and how he helped me write my books before he passed. Just this
morning John messaged me: “That sounds like an interesting biographical
approach. I’ll be looking forward to that. It struck me this week while trying
to process the imminent loss of Scott Adams – it is very similar (to a lesser
degree, of course) to losing Mike. That very smart, funny, sometimes annoying
but beloved older guy who always has something interesting to say. Damn it.”
"Walking around the
corner" was a daily ritual when the younger kids kept an eye out for the
others (just Mike at first) as they came around Loop Drive from the bus stop.
Mike recorded a special on [Thomas]
Jefferson. -1997
On the 20th Mike
and I went to the library. The best thing that happened today was Mike and I
worked on supper together: chicken fried patties, mashed potatoes, gravy, green
beans. – February, 1997
On the 21st,
about 1 AM at night, Nippy and Rocky got in a fight. Apparently Rocky was still
hanging out in the back of the yard when Mike thought he was [penned] in the
garage as usual. It's so dark you can't always tell. I was washing dishes,
heard the fight, and went to tell Mike, meeting Pop on the way out; he had
heard it from his bedroom. He and Mike went out; Rocky had Nippy by the throat.
Each grabbed a dog, trying to get them apart. I ran around uselessly trying to
find something to hit them apart. At Mike's suggestion Pop hit Rocky in the
balls: this made him let go. Mike doctored and stayed up with Nippy for hours
till the bleeding stopped. – February, 1997
Art Bell had the author
of 5/5/2000 on to talk about upcoming world catastrophes, and
Mike and I listened and commented as I washed dishes. – February, 1997
[Poe’s] struggle to make a
living by writing reminds me only too much of Mike ... and his quest to find
love, and the seeking relief in drink and drugs, and the compromises with the
dirty devices of the world, and the constant rejection of what he had to offer.
And the weird, vicious humor that animates his writing, not always acknowledged
by his readers; Mike shares that too.
From John: I know what
you mean regarding Poe - both in terms of his Mike-ishness and his relative
age. I had a dream the other morning with Mike in it- I don't remember any of
the details except that he had been trying to get me to go along with some
scheme or another and was putting on his full charm offensive. I decided
against it, and immediately his mask fell, and he turned hateful and vindictive
- an occurrence that happened more than once for real- and it reminded me of
that side of Mike - just a hurtful outrageous selfishness- usually the more
nasty activities would bring it out of him. A complicated, sometimes
surprisingly mysterious person. I guess it is healthier to consider the
good and bad in everyone, ourselves included- painful though it can be, and
know we are all weak and stupid about certain subjects and fall prey to making
dumb mistakes. There would be no need for God's mercy otherwise.
Me: And I know what you mean
about Mike. But then the dead all seem mysterious, once they are dead. When
they are alive, they appear so obvious. They are what they are, and you think
they are plain as pikestaffs, and then you find hints (sometimes from other
people who saw other facets of them) that there are hidden corners you never
thought to question, or perhaps never dared to, or that perhaps just couldn't
be expressed. I suppose we all carry mysteries like that to our graves. … Mike
appears in my dreams in pretty dubious and desperate situations, but seldom
angry. In fact, in one he seemed rather pleased with my book.
John: I dream of Mike
a lot, a couple of times a week, most weeks- and he arrives in many different
moods and modes, sometimes really great, sometimes like the other day's dream.
Today would have been my
brother Mike’s 62nd birthday. Whenever I set out to describe
Mike in written words, I am stymied. There is no easy way to sum him up, and I
get the feeling he would be angry with me if I even tried. There is no way of
getting all of him into one portrait; the subject is just too tremendous, too
complicated. Mike was a man of big ambitions, great strength and great
weaknesses, big loves, big appetites, big temper, giant humor, giant sorrows,
great tenderness, and great talent. I have heard him described as the soul of
Lord Byron in the body of John Belushi. I recently asked one of my siblings if
they thought Mike might have actually been insane, and they replied, “You’re
only wondering that now?”
If you went through this
blog and picked out every instance where Mike is mentioned, you might get the
impression that Mike was a bully or a guy with an anger problem, and that is a
certain aspect of his personality. But he was stronger and smarter than most of
his peers, and that made him impatient with physical cowardice or submissive
conformity. He was our Imperious Leader, going boldly where no Babel had gone
before, and our guide and icebreaker whether it was into a new school or a new
job. I know he was most angry with me when my oddity threatened whatever social
progress he might have made.
He was a strong man, and
nothing breaks harder than a strong man. He had hopes that his writing talents
(editor of the school newspaper) and physical prowess (member of the football
team) might overcome what he saw as his lack of good looks and social standing
and win him the object of his affections (‘I love—and who? ’Tis Fate’s decree I
love the fairest—how otherwise?’). Her final rejection after she toyed around
with his heart was the first great break. There were other breaks to follow,
and desperate measures to patch them up, but it was an uphill climb that
wandered into many dead ends and byways. I think he was finally finding a
measure of peace and accomplishment (he had recently finished writing a
philosophical murder mystery that had helped him untangle some moral and
metaphysical knots) when he passed away.
An anecdote: John and I got
into Mike’s car soon after his passing and started it up to move it away. To
our surprise the tape player was on, and it began to play one of Tom Petty’s
latest songs, Wake Up Time. We listened with indescribable
feelings, not moving an inch, to what seemed an eerily applicable final eulogy
and call for our brother. “You spend your life dreaming, running 'round in a
trance, you hang out forever and still miss the dance … Yeah, you were so cool
back in high school, what happened? …You're just a poor boy, alone in this
world … You’re just a poor boy, a long way from home … And it’s wake up time.
Time for you to open up your eyes. And rise. And shine.” It may have been
just a coincidence, but it shook me to the core.
Have I come any closer to
explaining the enigma of my brother Mike? Hardly. In its incompleteness, this
essay might well count for my Friday Fiction. I show a few pictures of me and
Mike because the Mike I am describing is part of my Mike: I’m
sure anyone else who knew him could tell many a different tale. His
boundless love for his nieces, his deep affection for his dogs, his complicated
relationships with our parents, his uncanny marksmanship, his bizarre and
sporadic talent for drawing, his occasional threats of suicide, his weird bid
to be an internet cult leader … these are all aspects that would require
infinite nuancing and are certainly beyond my power to adequately analyze. What
can I say? I love the guy, and I don’t think I’ll ever get to the bottom of
him.
Mike moved back into the
house with me and Pop. By that time, I had a new computer and, in an effort to
perhaps at last sell my book, Mike helped me to transcribe and polish the
chapters, he being an editor of no mean talent and skill. We spent many hours
with me reading the manuscript out loud to him and he tapping it out, making
suggestions as we went along, until at last Elf & Bear stood whole
and done. I made a paper copy and a thumb drive, and there it was at last, safe
and sound. While we were trying to figure how and where to shop it around, I
actually began the first chapter of “American Fantasy”, with Mike providing
several ideas and notes on how it might proceed.
I partially moved into
Susan’s guest house to help watch the kids and to cook for them, while Mike
stayed at Loop Drive to care for things and struggle along with his job until
something could be done about the water. Then Mike suddenly died, just short of
two years after Pop, and without his impetus to help me publish, Elf & Bear
as a project went into eclipse, and there it remains.
[In The Calf] I
figure Mike was trying to process his complicated feelings about Pop, our
father's fatalism and his discouraging outlook on life, his lack of vision or
any interest in his children's future. Pop had made his own way in life and
expected us to do the same. He had to actually struggle against his own father
and had no other pattern to measure fatherhood against. Mike was desperately
trying to come to terms with him, to some understanding. I wonder what both of
their lives would have been like if they could have come to some sort of peace
earlier.
MAY 30, 1981: Went to the
coast with Mike, John, and Phil. Swam, ate Snickers, listened to music
[Beatles], ate at Mrs. Pete's, got souvenirs. Our visit to the coast was the
only celebration of graduation I had. Phil, although of my year, was Mike's
best friend. I remember we listened to the Beatles (a huge obsession with Mike,
John, and Phil) mainly because some passing tools mocked us by chanting "I
wanna hold your hand!" We answered, in chorus, "We wanna kick your
ass!" Mrs. Pete's was a beach tradition. – 1981
The World of Star Trek and
“The Trouble with Tribbles”, By David Gerrold. The second wave of Star
Trek fandom hit us in grade school as the reruns began, and the mania hit us
hard. Playings, MEGO dolls, and Mike got these books, examinations of the
phenomenon by David Gerrold, who wrote the classic episode about Tribbles. Had photos
and in the “Trouble” one, cartoons. When Mike moved on [from the franchise],
they fell to me as conservator.
"Star Trek" began
to be re-run when I was in 4th Grade, and it pretty much swept the school. I
remember it was especially "a thing" with Mike and his friends, but
it was just as big in our family as well. We bought Star Trek MEGO action
figures to join our Planet of the Apes MEGOs. Mike got the first Star Trek
Concordance with its special cover that had a wheel in it that you could
turn to find when each episode debuted and its star date. That book
disappeared, somehow; whether it was lost or whether Mike traded it or secretly
gave it away, I do not know.
One day we were all sitting
around in the living room, talking, and the subject turned to how we would like
our funeral to be held when the time came.
Mike came up with something
like this:
“When I die, I want my head
cut off and my body cooked on the old barbecue grill, then served up to the
whole family with sauce, potato salad, and all the fixings. Afterward, I want
them to play a game of soccer with my head, and afterwards the bloody, bruised,
dirty thing placed on top of the TV set, for all to forever see and remember
me.”
Mom recoiled in disgust.
“I don’t want a filthy thing
like that on my TV!”
Mike replied indignantly:
“Woman! Have you no respect
for the dead?”
Mike’s and my [Christmas
stockings] were decorated with glinting Santa Claus sequin appliques (with
other smaller festive items).
[John and I] had a good but
short talk; the most unusual fact was that Kenny told him that Berta, Mike’s
old girlfriend, had contacted him and, after talking, was sending him letters,
poems, and stories that Mike had given her, and that she was sorry about Mike’s
passing.
Weekday dressing was pretty
casual, usually a pullover shirt and a pair of shorts. Our clothes were
kept in a little green dresser. Mike and I shared the top drawer, John
and Kenny the next, and the bottom was for Sunday shoes and belts.
Today would have been my
brother Mike's 59th birthday. This is a little collage I made with my computer
in the early 2000's; the paper I printed it on got water damaged at one point.
There is so much I want to say about him. There is so much I would like to say
to him. When he passed away, he had just completed a large novel and was on the
point of trying to get it published. Finances and other circumstances made that
difficult; it was before the boom in electronic publishing became big and made
sending your work over the internet easy. There is so much that could be told
about him. This is part of the bare-bones obituary I wrote at the time:
Michael Wayne Babel was born
Feb. 9, 1962, the first son of E.E. ("Buddy") and Patricia Babel. He
graduated from Seguin High School in 1980 and attended Southwest Texas State
University from 1980 to 1984.
A dedicated reader, writer,
and editor of great skill, he was twice winner of the Gates Thomas Award for
prose writing. In his time, he worked at KWED in Seguin, KGNB in New Braunfels,
and at the Seguin Gazette-Enterprise, but perhaps enjoyed his work as a
substitute teacher in the Seguin area best. His most recent job was at River
Gardens in New Braunfels. He passed away at home on Oct. 21, 2006.
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