“Well, is it a pull or a tear?” I asked Gen.
My sister had become a wife and a licensed doctor of Physical Therapy in the same week. I was putting her training to the test already to diagnose my dancing injury from the night before. Plus I was family, so the consultation was free.
“No bruising, it’s a little swollen. You probably just pulled it really bad,” Gen told me. Thank goodness. I couldn’t take time to have any kind of procedure. I have to get to Maine soon. I hoped. If not, I’d just keep on applying.
Hope for the best, but prepare for the worst, that’s what I always say.
I’m not the first person to say that. Apparently Benjamin Disraeli said it first. He was a 19th century British guy, the 1st Earl of Beaconsfield, whatever that means. I’m sure I won’t be the last to say it.
I expected the job offer on Monday. And it came that Monday.
I could not keep myself from tears as I called my Old Man to tell him the good news. I kept it together long enough to call WAGM back and tell them I accepted, then let the emotions run free. But while my left eye shed tears of joy, from my right eye came tears of sorrow. I had three weeks to wrap up my affairs in Chicago.
I couldn’t ask for any more time to say goodbye. I couldn’t wait to report to my first job. I couldn’t think of all the things I wanted to do before I left. I didn’t want to.
It’s not that I didn’t want to face the reality of leaving my home for 23 years, but I didn’t want to commemorate it. I didn’t want to mark it as an end. Because it wasn’t an end. It was just the beginning.
I instead thought of my glorious return. After half a dozen or so years in Presque Isle, Maine, then say Dayton, Ohio or Durham, North Carolina, I would come back to Chicago in a capacity in which not only would everyone be able to see me air, but better, in person. And I’d be able to see you. The plural you. You know who you are.
The one thing I was giddy to do upon notification of employment was to set a date for Blatz Fest IV.
Blatz Fest began in 2011. It’s a party I host annually in which all my friends are welcomed. The point of Blatz Fest is for everyone to have a Blatz. To Blatz out. To live each day like it’s your Blatz. Carpe Blatz. And so on.
Former Blatz Fest MVP’s, Doug and the Blatzfather
It’s a great party. We call caterers, usually Brown’s Chicken or Portillo’s. Maggie Mikuz makes a pasta salad. The legendary Pat “Hot Karl” Juran makes an appearance, and it all culminates with the Blatz Fest MVP trophy presentation.
My Old Man, the Blatzfather, won the first two MVP’s, and Doug Fredrickson took home the award at Blatz Fest 3. There was no clear-cut leader after the first half of Blatz Fest IV. It was anybody’s trophy. So the committee who decided the winner stepped outside to discuss whom the trophy should go to.
I myself had no idea who the trophy was going to. Thank goodness everyone else did.
So we came to a consensus and marched back up the stairs to announce Pat Juran as Blatz Fest IV MVP. I stood on a chair, and called everybody’s attention. I began my speech. I thanked everyone for coming, and geared up to reveal the winner.
“This year’s MVP Trophy goes to a guy who…” and then I was cut off.
“Jake, stop, stop, let me do it,” Doug, the former MVP commanded me.
Blatz Fest IV Poster signed by all attendees
But Doug, you don’t know Juran like I do? You weren’t even there for his Blatz Fest 1 tighty-whitey rooftop pool-dive? How are you going to give him a good intro? This doesn’t make any sense?
He insisted, so I obliged. Doug, and not me, assumed the podium up top the kitchen chair. I was a little peeved.
“We went outside to discuss the winner. And we pretty much all knew who it was going to. There was no question,” Doug proclaimed. “There’s only one guy who deserves this trophy… and that’s Jake Berent!!!”
For the second time in five days I was moved to tears. Everybody in the room knew I was getting the trophy, except me. It was totally an “Awww, you guuuuuuuys” kind of moment.
It was the first of many farewell gatherings. I had a pretty big network of friends, coworkers, hoodlums, associates, acquaintances, pals, mentors, jerks, and loved ones. Would it be possible to say goodbye to all of them?
No. You can’t. But you don’t always get to say goodbye to everybody. Especially the ones you love. But like I said, this was no goodbye. It was more of a “See ya later.”
There are two people I must now thank. One of them is my older brother Stanley. In his usual dispassionate manner, he generously arranged for me to lease his 2009 Ford F-150 for my time in Maine. The other is my lifelong best friend Joe Sweeney, who without a single grumble helped me pack up all my crap and cram it into every square inch of that truck.
We packed the truck the night before I left. Joe and I started at 6:30pm. We left the key in the ignition so the lights would help us see and the radio could be on. We were blasting our favorite radio station, 97.1 FM The Drive, as we prepared for the drive that was ahead of me. Of course around 11:00pm the battery died. So we continued packing in the darkness as we waited for AAA. A man named Duane came by in his service truck a little later, gave us a charge, and by 1:30am we had finished.
I rushed home to be with my Old Man. He’d been up waiting until we were done packing. I didn’t much regard the fact that I had a 3 day, 1,400 mile journey ahead of me. I had only precious hours and left to spend with my best friend.
So we walked in at 2:00am, and the Old Man gave me that old familiar signal. He extended his index and pinky fingers and said, “Piwo.” The two fingers of course meant two. Piwo (PEE-vo) is the Polish word for beer. The fridge was so full of Blatz the backlight barely shone through.
Groggily I rose the next morning to set sail for Detroit. I made sure I had everything, told the folks I loved them, and drove 4 blocks up Newcastle Ave. to Joe’s house. There was one thing left to do.
Joe had bought me a bumper sticker months earlier and I finally had a place to put it: on the back of the truck that would take me to Maine.
Once you peel a sticker from it’s paper, there’s no going back.
Jake Berent 
A tear in my eye and a lump in my troat.