Motion Masquerade

Go With the Flow and Then Punch the Jerk Off

For my twenty-fifth birthday my entire family went to the Renaissance Festival in Florence. My brothers were twenty-two and twenty-one at the time, and both were excited because they could legally drink beer while snarfing down turkey legs. They also got jacked up by the idea of being able to sling axes at wooden targets while tipsy (I will never understand the things that entertain men).

Michael and I stood off to the side and watched as my two goofy-ass younger brothers took turns hurling hatchets through the air, whooping it up and laughing their butts off. Both of my brothers had/have infectious laughs, so we couldn’t help but chuckle along with them.

As Cole stood with his toes on the line, getting ready to throw again, a trio of young ladies walked by, glanced at my brother, stopped in their tracks, and started whispering energetically between themselves. They hurried over to where Chase, my husband, and I were standing, and one of them said, “Oh my God. Is that Ashton Kutcher? It is, isn’t it?”

Cole was a looker, and had been mistaken for other celebrities before, but Ashton was a new one. I smiled and got ready to say, I’m sorry, it isn’t; but before I could, Chase jumped in and said, “Yep, it is. That is absolutely Mr. Kutcher. We’re his entourage!”

The girls giggled with excitement as I elbowed my brother, hissing, “What the hell are you doing?”

“Shhhh,” he hissed back. “I have to see how this plays out,” Chase said with a mischievous grin.

As Cole tossed his last ax, he turned to us with a satisfied smile, and was immediately accosted by the three Ashton acolytes. “Ashton! Oh my God! We are your biggest fans! Could we get an autograph please? And a photo?”

Cole — always a little shy, and ever humble — was confused and beyond embarrassed by the attention, which had turned more than a couple of heads. “I’m sorry, Ladies,” he said, “but you have mistaken me for someone else.”

“Oh,” said one of the Kutcher fans conspiratorially, “we know you have to say that and that you’re trying to keep a low profile. Just one photo? Please?”

My brother took off his sunglasses and his baseball cap, revealing his golden-blonde hair and pale blue eyes. “I promise,” he said, hands up with his palms out, “I’m not Ashton Kutcher.”

The girls sagged a bit, but quickly recovered. One of them said, “Could we get a photo anyway?”

My brother smiled bashfully and said, “Sure.” He posed for their Ashton-look-alike selfie and sent them on their way, politely refusing to give the most forward one his phone number.

Chase, meanwhile, was laughing his ass off on the sidelines.

When all was said and done, Cole marched right up to my baby brother, punched him in the left shoulder, and growled, “Jerk off.” (Cole rarely swore.)

“Come on,” Chase replied, “that was fucking hilarious!”

And if I’m being honest, it kind of was.

Dance Like No One’s Watching

When Michael and I got married in 2006, Big & Rich’s song “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy” was very popular on Country Radio and I adored it beyond rational explanation; so, I insisted that it was a part of the DJ’s playlist for our reception.

We chose a smaller venue, with a more intimate invite list, and the dance floor wasn’t very big. Still, not too many people were moving their feet the first half of the evening.

I love to dance, but I definitely do it like a White girl — quite spastically — and I prefer when there’s a crowd I can blend into.

Unfortunately, when Big & Rich started to play, no one was on the dance floor; but, Cole knew how much I loved the song. So, he grabbed my hand and flung me onto the parquet tiles.

Pretending he had a cowboy hat on his head, he tipped his imaginary Stetson and held his arm out, indicating that I should start moving. At first I was frozen in place — we were the only people out there, and everyone was watching — but Cole immediately started imitating some of the steps from the music video (in an exaggerated, goofy style) and I couldn’t help but break into laughter… and then join in the fun.

That silly dance with my brother is burned into my memory like a bright, technicolor short film; and I will forever treasure it. Cole was always good that way.

Dancing to Big & Rich with Cole at my wedding. (January 2006)

When You Can’t Find the Words, Break Into Song

Ma is an extremely talented interior designer. Her homes have always been stunningly beautiful; but, it also takes great effort — and sometimes physical and mental anguish — to achieve that kind of perfection (which is why I have never even attempted to live up to those kinds of standards).

Unfortunately, Flagstaff is a small town and there are limited options when it comes to furnishing retailers. Twenty-plus years ago, there were fewer still.

One afternoon, we were out shopping with my mom at the Flagstaff Furniture Barn and she couldn’t find what she was looking for. As we left the disappointing brick building with the giant Holstein Friesian painted on the front (God knows what cows have to do with furniture), Enrique Iglesias’ “Hero” started blasting from the speakers of Ma’s car.

As we descended the ramp into the parking lot, Cole — who had exited the building with Ma’s keys shortly before we had — dropped to his knees in front of my mother and started lip syncing the song. (It was one of her favorites.) He grabbed Ma’s hand, kissed it, and twirled into a standing position. Then, he performed an elaborate, impromptu dance to the entire ballad — mouthing the lyrics as he went along.

By the time he got to “Would you laugh? Oh please tell me this…” — just forty-eight seconds into the song — Ma was smiling brightly. When he stood and threw his arms open at the first chorus, she was laughing — all frustration and furniture discontent suddenly forgotten.

At the end of his brilliant ruse to lift her spirits, Ma and I, and a couple of bystanders in the parking lot, clapped and cheered and whooped for my brother. Cole, breathless and flushed from his efforts, gave my mom one of his world-famous bear hugs; and I stood in absolute awe of my brother.

He was magical in my eyes.

The Only Guy a Girl Really Needs is Her Brother

When Chris turned down my invitation to the homecoming dance, I accepted an invite from Jeremy — a hotly sought after boy in my freshman class. I was surprised, but also flattered, that he asked me.

I spent hours getting ready. Ma bought me a beautiful dress — a black strapless (my first!) with an emerald green, satin skirt. She also took me to her hairdresser to have my wild curls tamed into a half up-do, and did my make-up herself. My mom always looked gorgeous when she went to formal dances with my father, and she took great care to make me feel like a princess that evening.

Jeremy was supposed to pick me up at six o’clock, and I was ready by five-thirty — just in case he showed up a little early. When he hadn’t shown up by six fifteen, I started to worry. At six-thirty, I called his house, got no answer, and started to panic. By six-forty-five, I was sure I’d been stood up and was fighting back tears.

I kicked off my brand new heels and sat on the living room floor, defeated.

Cole walked quietly into the room and sat beside me. He said nothing. Just took my right hand in his and put his head on my shoulder. I turned and hugged him fiercely, still trying not to cry.

My younger brother looked up at me, from behind the square lenses of his glasses, and said, “Would you like to dance with me?”

Choking back my humiliation, I said, “Yeah, I would.”

We stood up, and my brother ran down the hall to grab his boom box and a tape. He tiptoed back into the living room and placed his radio on the carpet. Kneeling, he held one hand out to me, and said, “May I have this dance?”

I smiled, feeling mildly better, curtsied, and said, “You may.”

He clicked the tape door shut and pushed play. There was static for a moment as my brother took both my hands in his. And then, “Jump! Jump! You know you should know better…” blasted out of the speakers and Cole started hopping up and down. Of all the songs he could have selected, my younger brother had picked “Jump” by Kris Kross.

“Come on, Cass! Jump!” he shouted over the lyrics and spiraling whine of the music.

I couldn’t help but laugh at his enthusiasm, and did as I was told. A few seconds later Chase leapt in on the fun; and, for three whole minutes I vaulted up and down with my younger brothers — satin emerald skirt flouncing around my waist. At the end of the song, we collapsed on the floor in boundless giggles.

At seven o’clock, Jeremy finally showed up at my door. He apologized for being so late; but my brothers weren’t impressed. They both called him a jerk before hugging me goodbye and giving him the evil eye. At the dance, Jeremy ditched me for his ex-girlfriend. I wrote Jeremy off for the bozo Cole and Chase had seen him as — hopped onto the dance floor — and had a blast with my friends.

Sometimes the only guys a girl needs are her brothers.

The Longest I’ve Been Without…

Cole has been gone six years today. This is the longest I’ve been on Earth without my younger brother. I never imagined that I’d have to exist in a world without him in it — and there is a Cole-shaped void in my heart and soul that cannot be replaced with another. But! I choose to remember the glitter and the sparkle and the laughter and the dance steps that he brought to my life. My grief is deep because I loved him so very much… and he loved me in return.

Today my wish is that you all give and receive a great big bear hug from someone that you cherish; because if my brother were here, that’s what his precious gift to me would be.

I miss you, Coley. So very, very much…

Cole (September 14, 1980 – June 20, 2018)