The Amazing Bud Fried, with prologue

I don't think serial killers ride the 2 train at 1:30 in the morning.

I was coming back from filming something at Brooklyn College in Flatbush last night and, it's quite true that every subway in New York has its own personality. I like to think the 2 specifically is the "What the fuck?" train. It connects the heart of Harlem to the heart of Brooklyn, with Manhattan and everything west of Prospect Park in between. When I first moved to Brooklyn in 2006, the best I could afford was the north end of Flatbush - affectionately known as Prospect Lefferts Gardens to real estate agents. Effectively, after the Eastern Parkway-Brooklyn Museum stop, you become one of two things on the 2: a Hasidic Jew, or a working class Caribbean immigrant... or some kid from the Jersey suburbs who can barely afford $900 a month rent. Anyway, while it was great to relive those late night memories of coming home from Improdome clutching my iPod and learning how to stare straight ahead, I found something extremely curious. So curious, that it caused me to miss the craziness that was living in the 'hood for a year. At Franklin Ave., a nice enough looking guy gets on clutching a steak knife, a meat tenderizer, and a catcher's mitt on his other hand. This sane-looking gentleman proceeded to float up and down the car, looking for a map, trying to figure out how to get home. All while, not paying any heed to the fact that he looked like he was hunting Dracula on Bedford Avenue. Did I mention that the dude brandished a huge steak knife just out in the open? Anyway, there was no real harm done. He did almost accidentally graze some guy with it, but he finally sat down and fell asleep.

I got off at Grand Army Plaza. By then it was 1:50 a.m. and I watch the train speed away. God bless that well-dressed, knife-wielding maniac - I hope he found the girl of his dreams that night.

Just in case you don't know who this man is, you should. It's my grandfather, Irving "Bud" Fried. Last Monday was the three year anniversary of his death and in November, it will be the two year anniversary of his wife, my grandmother, Jane Fried. I don't know what to really say about my grandfather. When he passed away, I was a junior in college and his role in my life was dubious at best. Without going into much detail, it would be safe to say that the Ben Folds song "Bastard" is a strong enough summation of our relationship. Ironically enough, the Ben Folds Five song "Eddie Walker" is also a good description of my relationship with my dad, Hank Fried, who died when I was only four. I think you can begin to see the pattern that's emerging here.

I've always had an off-beat relationship with the men in my family. Between my dad dying in 1987 and my step-dad coming into my life in 1995, Bud was the only male role model I had for the better part of a decade. He went to Harvard University (Class of '38) and always reminded everyone. He loved watching the Philadelphia Eagles suck it up every season. In the 1961, he started a speaker business that still bears my family name. Among our most popular clients were The Beatles. Incidentally, I also have a funny story about my grandmother getting manhandled by Mick Jagger - no, really.

Bud was heartbroken when I decided not to follow in his Ivy League footsteps at eighteen. But since I elected to study theater, he also figured I had to be gay - meaning that my two younger cousins would be the bearers of his "legacy." A few months later when I told him that I wanted to start studying Buddhism (confirming I had no intentions to ever be bar mitzvahed), he emphatically asked "Why would you want to follow a religion where a bunch of guys sit on their asses all day on top of a mountain?"

Truth be told, I couldn't stand my grandfather as I grew up. It wasn't until after he passed away though that I realized what he left me with: years of a painful existence. But, what do all good comedians do with those experiences but, put them into their art? At twenty-five years old, I'm the same age Bud was at when he was in law school. He met my grandmother right around the same time. Bud would eventually elect to go home to Philadelphia and start a life for himself. At the end of this month, I will have been living in New York for two full years on my own with no fiancee in sight. Not many people know this, but whenever I end up in an improv scene that involves drinking, classical music, or high class affairs, that's my way of honoring Bud.

In Buddhism, we are taught about forgiveness and compassion. The last time I ever saw him was three weeks before he died in a nursing home, and he was in bad shape. My girlfriend at the time was with me, but she eventually stepped out of the room and it was just him and I. I remember taking a long look at this man and being filled with so much anger. But, I stood there and forgave him for everything he ever did that pissed me off. Because no one should have to leave this world with his grandson hating him. Also, deep down, I knew that oftentimes his behavior was the best he could do. It's not as if he never tried sometimes to meet me on common ground.

One of the lasting memories I have of him is from the summer of 1993, when he took me to my first Phillies game - the last time the Phils made a run for the World Series. I remember sitting there, being very into what was happening. Pete Incaviglia made an amazing sliding catch in right field - this was when the Vet still stood, so that must've hurt. Bud, being more of an Eagles fan, just sat there eating peanuts, trying to look interested. At one point, he put his arm along the back of my seat. We looked at each other and both thought "What the hell are you trying to pull?" In that moment though, the Phils started a rally that blew the opposing team out of the water - I think it was The Braves. Later that night, Bud said to me "I guess you and I are lucky charms." Every other game we went to, the Phils always won. For the sake of it, yes: we were lucky.

I miss you, Bud. Thanks for everything... even the crying.