My mom’s gay best friend was a boisterous, chain-smoking alcoholic. He taught me so much.

When I was kid, my mom’s best male friend was this big, boisterous guy named Lowell who never met a vice he didn’t indulge in.

No, seriously. He chain-smoked, and he was always flying off to Vegas to gamble, often winning massive jackpots — which, of course, had me wondering how much money he’d spent to win those jackpots. Whenever we went out to eat, he always ordered steak, as big and as rare as possible.

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This is who I always was. I’m just living as that person out loud and unhidden. 

And man, could this guy drink. Looking back, he was clearly an alcoholic — high-functioning, but an alcoholic nonetheless. Of course, he was an entertaining drunk — the life of the party. He always had everyone in stitches.

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In retrospect, I can also now see that Lowell was almost certainly a closeted gay man, but those were very different times, and that issue never came up with my mom and me.

Lowell was a terrible influence on kids.

Except, of course, he wasn’t.

Once when I was in my early 20s, he told me I was looking very handsome, and I — being my typically self-conscious self — said, “No, I’m not.”

And he said, “Don’t do that, Hartinger. You’re young, and you’re only gonna be young once! Enjoy it.”

One weekend, my parents threw a big party with a hundred guests, and they asked me to be tend bar. I was eighteen — too young even to legally drink myself — and I’d never made drinks before.

But, of course, I had Lowell to teach me.

I don’t remember a single drink Lowell taught me to make, but I remember the feeling of confidence he gave me. A dorky, self-conscious kid like me — a bartender!

Was it a crime letting an eighteen-year-old mix and serve drinks? I dunno. Things were different back in the 80s.

But even at the time, I thought it was pretty interesting that my parents had friends like Lowell.

Sure, my mom and dad were straight-laced and socially conservative — and I’ve already written how my mom was really, really high-strung. But I knew my parents were different from most of the ones at my Catholic high school or in our suburban neighborhood. A surprising number of their friends were intellectuals, sophisticates, and downright oddballs.

Like Lowell.

Once Lowell even stayed with my brother and me when my parents were out of town — which reminds me just how truly different things were back in the 80s.

When I was twenty-three and home from grad school, I tried to rent one of my first apartments. But I was young and inexperienced, and the landlord insisted on my having a co-signer.

My parents were out of town again, so I called Lowell. Would he mind being my co-signer?

“Sure, Hartinger,” he said. “No problem.”

But the landlord wanted his financial details so they could check on him to make sure he was credit-worthy.

“I’m not giving them my account numbers!” he told me, indignant. “Look, Hartinger, why don’t I just write you a check for the first six months, and you can pay me back. Good? Good.”

And that’s exactly what we did.

From a young age, I was pretty fascinated by Lowell, but I was kind of appalled by him too — the way he lived. He was an impending train wreck, always about to crash.

Meanwhile, my father had had a heart attack at age 31, and as a result, my mother made healthy living a top priority in our house — even before the “fitness craze” swept the country.

I wasn’t thrilled with this at the time — the crazy Hartinger family with their strange, low-fat ice cream and always out hiking or jogging. But looking back, I think it’s the best possible gift my parents could have given me. If I’ve stayed fit over the years, I think it’s largely because eating well and being active is just what people in our family did.

As for Lowell, the only time he pressed a bench was when he was sidling up to the bar.

He made it clear what he thought of our healthy living — always with a laugh, of course. “You Hartingers don’t know how to have fun. Would it kill ya to loosen up a bit? Here, have a martini.”

But after a while, I learned to give as well as I got. “Could you please lay off the cigarettes for five minutes? It’s like a forest fire in your apartment. And eat some damn vegetables — you look like you’re halfway to scurvy as it is.”

Again, things were really different back in the 80s. But how great is it that my parents were totally comfortable letting a guy like Lowell spend time around their kids?

After all, this was my mother’s best male friend. The two of them loved each other, always laughing and talking deep into the night.

And — shhhhhh — they also sometimes smoked, at least when my father wasn’t around. My mother was a former smoker, and once she gave it up, the only time she ever indulged was when she’d sneak a cigarette or two with Lowell.

I loved Lowell too. Everyone did. He was a walking one-man party.

As I grew older and more sure of myself, Lowell’s and my teasing about our respective lifestyle choices sometimes segued into actual discussions — always good-natured, but there was also a serious disagreement underlying it.

“We only live once, and I want to live as long as possible,” I’d say to him, “And I want to be mentally and physically capable as long as possible too. I know there are no guarantees in life, but the odds of getting what I want are much higher with healthier living.”

“But what’s ‘living,’” Lowell would answer, “if you have to deny yourself all the things that make life worthwhile? Now, Hartinger, let’s have another drink — and hell, how about another piece of this fantastic cheesecake too?”

Lowell never gave up cheesecake, or cigarettes or alcohol — Lowell never denied himself anything — and he lived longer than I expected, to age 77. But throughout his 70s, he battled a series of painful illnesses, including cancer.

When he died, I was sad, but I also thought, with all the smugness and certainty of relative youth: Well, I guess this settles our ongoing debate over which is better, my lifestyle or his.

But now that I’m older — and maybe a tiny bit wiser — I realize I had absolutely the wrong take on Lowell and his life.

For one thing, if Lowell really was gay, he grew up in a time that is absolutely unimaginable, even to me. He did what it took to survive — and be happy.

We’re all doing what we think it takes to be happy. That’s always worth remembering.

But that’s not even the main point I’m making here.

There are almost eight billion people on the planet — and there are exactly that many different ways to live.

I think it’s so great that while my parents had very specific ideas about how they wanted to live, they (mostly) didn’t tell my brother and me that their way was the only way.

No, even at a pretty young age, they usually trusted us enough to be around different ways of being — and to ultimately decide for ourselves how we wanted to live.

This was the point of Lowell’s life, at least as it related to me.

We do only live once. So whatever life you choose, make it your Goddamn own.

Brent Hartinger is a screenwriter and author, and one-half of “Brent and Michael Are Going Places,” a couple of traveling gay digital nomads. Subscribe to their free travel newsletter here.