I Spent The Weekend Becoming KMarko's Adopted Brother

One of the questions I’m often asked by fans is, “who are you closest to at the office?” Over the last year, the answer was resoundingly KMarko. Obviously, my 2-man bachelor party with Dave over Christmas break has forced me to reorganize my lineup of best friends, but Keith was the reliable leadoff hitter for my heart for most of 2017.

Keith was the first person I met when I stormed into the Barstool office a year ago to begin my domination of Barstool Idol, winning employment and fame with such hits as “Hold Me Close Now, I’ve Got Cancer.” I arrived obscenely early that first Monday, around 7:30, to show my eagerness, professionalism, and punctuality. (Best-man Dave would go on to ask “who was here first this morning?” I raised my hand, winning brownie points and setting in motion a series of events that would lead to our inseparability). It was early January and the office was dark. The lone light emanated from the computer screen of the ever-conscientious Markovich, illuminating a face whose features I would come to know as well as my own. I strolled over, breezily, and shook his hand. Ever-dedicated to the company, he didn’t even remove his headphones; he was in the zone.

As the weeks turned into months, Keith and I bonded over our shared love of literature, music, and whiskey. Truth be told, I didn’t like whiskey when I met Keith. But I saw how much he liked it, so I decided to beat my taste buds into submission for the sake of having a talking point. I spent nights gargling whiskey, swishing it around my mouth to numb my tongue and gums to the pain of the liquor. My eyes would water and I would scream in pain as the acerbic liquid scorched my esophagus. The next day, I would tell Keith of the delicious rye I had tasted. These sacrifices were a small toll to pay for a spot on Keith’s radar.

By November, we were texting during the weekend. I would send him a “anything fun on the plate?” text, attempting to sound easy-going. Sometimes he would respond, sometimes he wouldn’t. The outcome of my weekend was determined by these exchanges. When he responded favorably, I would look forward to Monday morning as a chance to catch up and communicate the thoughts that can’t be conveyed via text messages. Conversely, when he didn’t respond, I’d fall into despair, hating the unrequited overture that would hang over my head at the office. It was a volatile time in my life, punctuated by soaring highs and crushing lows. I spent a lot of time in the bath tub.

But every winter is succeeded by spring. This Saturday, I woke up thinking it was a normal day. I quietly kissed the cheeks of the three women in my bed, whispering “go back to sleep” to each of them, before heading to the gym to bang out 100 consecutive pullups while a KMarko playlist kept me focused. I only do bodyweight exercises on the weekend because my legs are typically shot from having sex all night. When I returned home, all the women were gone, which made me realize they had never been there in the first place.

I spent the rest of the day preparing for a show and drafting texts to Keith, trying to find that perfect balance of noncommittal indifference and reserved enthusiasm. At 7:10, I sent him “You drinking tonight” with no question mark. I felt the lack of punctuation manifested the insouciance for which I strived. He told me he was having dinner with his parents. Oh well, I thought. At least you took a shot, Fran.

But just when all hope seemed lost, Keith sent a second text saying that he and his family would be getting a drink after dinner. “It’s probably way out of your way so don’t make it a destination,” he added. “But you’re more than welcome to join.” I fell to my knees, openly sobbing. All those nights of drinking whiskey alone had led to an invitation to meet his family. I took a screen shot of the text, emailed it to myself, brought it to Kinkos to print on glossy paper, brought the printed conversation to a framing store, and told the Pakistani gentleman to “do it up real nice.” It should be ready by next week.

The Markovich’s had chosen a classy wine bar for their after-dinner aperitif. I arrived extremely early, a subtle nod to the day I first met Keith. I ordered some burrata, a panini, and a glass of malbec. I looked around for a scarf to wear so that when his parents walked in, they would see a portrait of distinguished intellect. I thought about running to the bathroom for a quick set of 50 pushups to make my shirt fit better. But just then, the door swung open and in walked our editor-in-chief. I sat up, improving my posture, and waved in a gay manner that I immediately regretted. “I hope he doesn’t think I’m gay,” I thought, sipping my malbec and wishing I’d worn a scarf.

In Keith’s parents, I saw the same erudition and integrity with which their son carries himself. His father had the air of a man always on the verge of recommending the book he was reading, while his mother struck me as someone for whom the education of her children was of paramount importance. I greeted them as Mr. and Mrs. Markovich, but they quickly corrected me, insisting that I call them by their first names. I almost said, “can I call you mom and dad?” but held back, thinking it was too soon for that level of familiarity. Hell, I hadn’t even converted to judaism yet.  They only stayed for a few minutes, but that was all we needed to make it clear that I was one of them now. It’s hard to believe that a family so polished could be missing a piece, but there I was, making the equation whole.

The kids stuck around for a while, drinking wine and laughing as the snow dusted the windows outside. After an hour that passed in the blink of an eye, our cheeks rosy and our souls warmed by the conversation and wine, we headed out into the night. My brother and I hugged goodbye the way that brothers do, and I went in search of some chicks. After all, I’m not gay.