One weekend afternoon when I was a teenager, a friend named Alan was riding his moped and wiped out in the intersection at Lovers and Hillcrest. He was in the street – down but still alive – when an older lady who apparently hadn’t seen the accident struck him with her vehicle and dragged him several hundred feet to his death before realizing her car was driving funny and stopping to investigate. Everyone said he was on acid at the time of the accident.
Another friend, Paul, was drunk and driving his mom’s Mustang convertible in North Dallas. The police report said he was going upwards of 80 mph when he crested the hill and launched the car into a telephone pole, impaling himself on the steering column upon impact.
Mark wasn’t a friend and he didn’t die, but he had a damn close call when he showed up for a rumble at the 7-11 and allegedly went for a gun in his glovebox. There were some Guardian Angels who had also shown up, and one of them stopped Mark from getting the alleged gun – by slashing his throat.
Dave was a guy from work (whom I considered a pal but of whom I was also somewhat afraid) who was getting into heroin. I would hear stories about friends from work partying at Dave’s apartment. I didn’t party with them when they were doing heroin. I’d like to say I knew better. If fear is the same thing, then I knew better. A week or so after Dave overdosed, I delivered Chinese food to a nearby home. A man in his 50’s answered the door, and there was a little dog at his feet. I recognized the dog and said its name, petted it, not thinking. I looked back up, and the man was crying. “You must have known my son,” he said through the tears. I was 17.
Scott was glowingly nice, the friendliest of the skater punks I hung out with during my childhood summers at Curtis Park. He liked to smoke tons of pot. The way I heard it, a drug deal went bad, and the angry dealer came to his apartment and unloaded 14 .22 rounds into Scott’s chest. I think that was 22 years ago. It’s weird, which specifics stick with you.
My friend Art worked at the school Utrecht in Chicago. He was deadpan hilarious. First gay guy I made friends with. I remember finding out he was gay and being really surprised. I mean, he hadn’t even hit on me or anything. There was never a hint of predatory sexual aggression, no mission to turn me to the dark side, none of what my Texas upbringing had warned me about. Just a mellow, even-tempered fellow artist with the most understated sense of humor and enough kindness to engender my immediate trust. I remember when he found out he had HIV. I felt crushed. With horror, I imagined what it might be like to know that your life was going to be cut short, and precisely how. The following summer, Art died while swimming in the pond at Oxbow, an art camp in Michigan. In a drowning accident.
Bill was my roommate for several years in Chicago, and my best friend for many years, then and beyond. He was my favorite artistic collaborator, nuts and free in ways I needed and adored. At 33, he was living alone and working at DDB. He was struck by a heart attack as he descended the stairs at his El stop one night while returning from a poetry reading at Barbara’s Books in Chicago. He died alone at the bottom of the train-station stairs.
Then there was Craig, a close friend from high school. A rare cancer took him in his mid 30’s. And Diane, another college roommate, who also succumbed to cancer a few years ago. The more I think about it, the more come to mind.
Day before yesterday, I was taking the boys to school when a young woman lost control of her car in the snow and slid into my car. No one was hurt. Both cars were messed up. As I got out of my car to make sure the other driver was alright, I saw another accident happen, maybe 30 feet from where I was standing. When we cleared our accident scene and got out of the way, we passed yet another one, about 100 feet up the road. A Dodge Charger was wrapped around a telephone pole, front and rear windshields blown out from the twist and impact. A baby seat had been partially thrown through the back door’s window, and was dangling from the seatbelt. Everyone in that accident had left the scene in ambulances. It was snowing and the roads were terrible. Nothing was anyone’s fault.
I don’t like the Chevrolet Malibu the rental company gave me while my car’s in the shop. It has cloth seats that feel like the last driver bathed them in soda, and the stereo and ventilation sound wrong. Too tight, somehow. Hollow. And where am I supposed to put the dog?
This is how I woke up today: thinking about death. It’s snowing again and the heat just kicked on. Time to wake the kids.