2001-08-18 - 12:20 p.m.

We�ve just been in the living room about five minutes when Kevin stands up and claps his hands with the look of a devil.

�All right. Let�s move to the patio while it�s still light out.�

I chuckle as my brother claps his hands, because that�s what I hit on for tomorrow�s toast. That way he just stands up and says, �All right. Let�s go.� Let�s move to the patio. Let�s climb that mountain. Let�s get married. Sometimes you can know a person your whole life, but then you stop and really look at him, and you notice all these little traits that have been there all along. You realize you�ve been missing him.

So the party moves out onto the patio. We drag out two extra chairs, because there are only four chairs and six of us � the three brothers, Kevin, David and Mark; two cousins, Brian and Bob; and a friend, Eli.

This may be the first time the patio has accommodated this many people, and it�s just the kind of night Kevin envisioned when he set out to build it. There�s not a lot of space; neighbors crowd in on two sides, just beyond the surrounding fence. The driveway and house are just a few steps away. But it�s his patio, the fruit of his labors, and he�s determined to enjoy it. Where others would have seen a small patch of dirt with a tree, he saw a whole new room for the house, one surrounded by gardens and sky, a spot to enjoy the cool breeze on his own patch of land. He just sits back, enjoying a few beers with family and friends, on his last night as a bachelor.

Kevin runs inside and brings out a few photos; they�re pictures from last week�s hike. It was a trip to remember, an exploit to be rehashed and celebrated over a beer on the patio. One photo shows Liz struggling to stand and smile for the camera; another shows Mark marching through an ice field; a third displays a sign urging them to turn back if conditions are bad.

Mark sets the stage � the worst conditions ever that day on Mount Washington, the mother of all Appalachians, claiming more lives than any other mountain in the country. The three of them climbed the nearby Mount Madison that day, struggling to gain footholds as the wind tore at them, 15-year-old Liz in pure survival mode, trying not to complain on her first mountain hike, thinking only of getting through this. They made it through somehow, set up camp on a rocky patch, and spent a sleepless night listening to the branches crack and fall around them.

�Why didn�t you turn back, go around it or something?� Brian asks. Bob knows the answer is obvious.

�Because Kevin was there,� he quips. They know him too well.

�Well, I figured, we could have always walked back down,� he says. He says it in a way that makes it seem so sensible. Of course you can always turn back, you can always walk down. And once you know that, you can face anything, you can keep your eye trained on the top of the mountain.

I step inside for another beer and realize I�m having a blast. I should have known I would. Kevin has this way of debunking every tradition, then claiming it for himself. That�s what he�s done tonight � this evening, the night before the wedding, a bachelor party in the truest sense. None of the superficial hype or degrading traditions that modern America has thrown on it, just a relaxed night among friends, a nice send-off into the world of matrimony. He�s rolling up his sleeves and plowing ahead with this new phase of his life.

He announces crazy new schemes from his spot on the patio. Tear up this rickety old porch and build up a two-story greenhouse in its place. Raise the floorboards of the kitchen and tear off the linoleum; put in an old-fashioned stove and suddenly you have a vintage turn-of-the-century kitchen.

Oh, it�ll be hell to make these things happen, but that�s what he loves. He takes us down to the basement and shines a flashlight under the kitchen. There�s a dusty crawlspace of beams and floorboard; it makes you claustrophobic just looking in there, imagining the hundred-year-old sagging floor giving way onto your rib cage. But once a week he crawls in there and does his work. He turns the screws that raise the floor, undoing with his own muscle and ingenuity a century of neglect.

�My own personal hel-l-l,� he calls it with that same grin, that same diabolical laugh. He says it in a way that makes you realize that this is the kind of adventure he was made for, that he�s been waiting for all his life. This is life, he says. Bring it on.

But hup, hup, no time to dawdle now. He�s up, he�s ready to hit the town. Off to Kitty O�Shea�s; off to make this night of bachelorhood one to remember. We scramble for our shoes and march off through the streets of Beverly.

I can see why he loves this scrabbled town. It�s not built rationally; like much of Boston�s old suburbs, it follows the natural pathways of the subconscious. A map does not help; the roads are best learned through experience, through getting to know each and every corner, each business and home. In the path from my grandmother�s home in Lynn to my aunt�s home in Marblehead, there are no highways; there is only the right at the Blue Moon restaurant and the sharp left around the baseball fields. No need to make it too easy to travel from here to there; force yourself to pay attention and you�ll realize that there actually is something between here and there.

Like this walk from Kevin�s house to Kitty O�Shea�s. Sure, we could have driven into Boston, made it into a Bachelor Party in capital letters, but then we wouldn�t have had this evening walk to enjoy, and we wouldn�t have run into these two characters who are calling to us from the street corner.

�Kevin Andrews!� one calls out. �You out with your posse?�

�That�s right,� Kevin says. �Just headed out for a few beers.�

Kevin makes the introductions all around. They�re a couple friends from around town; one lent him a jackhammer to help break up his driveway. They look at us in amazement, like they can�t believe this guy actually has a family.

�I�m getting married tomorrow,� Kevin says. He hops backwards, straightens his shirt. The guy can never stand still.

�That�s right; that�s right,� one guy says.

�So you gonna get him drunk?� the other guy asks.

�We�re gonna try,� Brian says.

We wish them well and move on.

Kevin had asked for a table outside, but it�s too crowded; we settle for a space downstairs. The music is loud, the waitresses irritable, and three regulars at the bar are howling at the Red Sox game. We order a round; heck, we�ll get some food, too.

As an Irishman and a Bostonian, I should feel right at home in this place, where the bathroom walls are painted to look like Ireland and the Red Sox are on every night. I should be able to do what Kevin does so easily, make a home for myself, settle in and enjoy it. I suddenly wonder why I have run off to Chicago, which will never be my home, when I should just be back here, having a few beers with my brothers.

Everyone else can do it. Mark is looking for a job around Boston; a job in the southern suburbs may be just too far. Brian has taken a job nearby and lives in New Hampshire. Maybe Bob, who�s still got two years left at school in Virginia, will feel the tug of the outside world and decide to break away.

�So, has your experience in Virginia turned you into a southerner?� I ask him.

�No,� he says. He couldn�t see himself living anywhere but New England. �I think being down there has only strengthened my Yankee bonds.�

So I�m the only one; the one who had to leave home, run across the country in search of happiness when it was waiting for me right here.

But tonight this is my home again. Tonight I�m relaxed and happy, no sense in worrying, because this is a night of celebration and we�ve got food to eat. After a couple of drinks, it looks like a feast.

I�ve got quesadillas, Kev goes for the fish and chips, Mark�s facing a burger. �This looks sooo good right now,� Mark says before digging in. We drink and eat, hashing over work and life and the world. The occasional roar comes out from the bar; the Red Sox are up early, 3-1. A win tonight and they take first place from the Yankees. The stars are aligning in Boston.

The food disappears in a hurry and we decide to order a shot. They don�t have what Kevin asks for, so the waitress comes out with six glasses that are not shot glasses; in fact it�s an amaretto drink spiced up with three shots apiece.

�There�s a drink for you,� Eli says.

�Whaaat?� Kevin says. �I do need to get up in the morning.�

The waitress had assumed it was somebody�s birthday. Nobody told her there was a wedding tomorrow. Never mind, we say, and she disappears. So we�ve got these towering shots in front of us. As the best man, I should be the voice of responsibility. I tell Kevin don�t worry, you don�t have to drink that whole thing if you don�t want to, I�ll take care of it for you. But he says he can manage.

So we drink; we toast three times and clink our glasses and send it down the hatch, no sense in lingering over them, no sense in lingering here. This place has given us all it can; we�ve eaten and drank, absorbed the atmosphere, we�ve lived a lifetime tonight and it�s only 10:00. But before we go, Eli gets up to visit the bathroom and collides with our waitress.

Her tray full of beers tips, sending glasses rolling off, beer spilling off the tray in rivulets. He reaches out instinctively to steady the tray, to save the glasses that have not tipped, but they join the others on the floor.

�I�m sorry,� he says. �That was totally my fault.�

The woman says nothing, but crouches to pick up the now-empty glasses and bottles from the floor. The rest of us laugh embarrassedly from our table, then get out of there in a hurry.

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