Things You Can't Explain

Around a year and a half ago, I was still out on the road in my black Kenworth and seeing all that the nation's truck stops had to offer.  (Well, maybe not all they had to offer, but you know what I mean.)  I got a message from my brother, relaying a message that he had received from my sister, passing along information that she had received from my ex-wife.  My sister and my ex work for the same airline, so they run into each other every now and then.  It turned out that my best friend from high school had died.  We hadn't been all that close in our post-school years.  Ole Jeremy had taken one path in life and I had taken another, but friends are still friends.  I'm not the sort to wallow in sadness or anything like that, so my predictable response was to remember some of the good times that we had when we were younger.

Death probably isn't supposed to make you smile, but what can I say?  The guy was fun to be around.  The one memory that leapt immediately to mind took place in the winter of our junior year of high school.  Several of the guys used to chip in a few bucks and rent the ice at the community center in order to play hockey on the weekends.  The only time that high school kids could afford the ice was very late at night.  During prime hours that shit was way too expensive.  So one night I picked him up and we headed out for some hockey.  (I had an '81 Oldsmobile 98 Regency at the time.  He had no car.  I was the driver by default.)

We were on the way to the rink when we decided that it would be better to have some beers instead.  His older brother bought us each a few 40's of Mickey's and we proceeded to get hammered.  The only problem was that he had to get back home.  It's not exactly a source of pride now, but I was a fairly skilled drunk driver when I was a teenager.  I drove him home.  He was afraid to face his mother alone though.  He was convinced that she would know he was drunk.  She had a soft spot for me though, so maybe if I went inside with him... yeah, brilliant idea.

So I reluctantly agreed to come in for a minute.  Dipshit decided to hop the fence like a detective on a primetime TV show.  He went face-first into the snow.  It was ugly.  Upon seeing her son enter the house with his face red and his hair covered in snow, his mother was understandably concerned.  She asked what happened.  He mumbled something that must have been in English, although I sure didn't understand it.  "You're drunk!" she exclaimed.  So what did he do?  Of course, he turned to me.

I was pretty damned drunk myself, but I was equal to the task.  I clamly explained that the hockey game had been a rough one.  Jeremy had taken a tough hit from one of the guys and hit the ice pretty hard.  He thought he could ease the headache by holding snow against his head, but it hadn't worked.  So now he just needed to go to bed and he should be better in the morning.  This concoction sounds even more ridiculous now that I'm actually typing it, but... she bought it.  My buddy went to bed and I went home.  Awesome.  This is the kind of shit that is worth remembering.

I wasn't in a position to make it to a funeral after hearing that my friend had died last year, given my circumstances at the time, but I did make a phone call.  Turns out he was still in the Navy, stationed in Virginia, survived by a wife, three kids, and an ex-wife, etc.  I'll be damned.  I would not have predicted any of that, given the way that his entry to the Navy was orchestrated back in 1993.  Some of you old-timers probably have stories about how this guy or that guy wound up being forced to join the Army.  Well, my buddy wasn't exactly forced to join the Navy, but he was grateful that our legal system offers some flexibility to the presiding judge.  Lest you think I'm speaking ill of the dead here - he always delighted in telling the whole story whenever he got the chance (and it was a pretty entertaining story).  He was never violent or anything; just a kid that made some stupid decisions.

Then, after he managed to straighten his life out and get his act together - gone.  Three orphans and a widow left behind.

A few days ago, as I was making my milk run somewhere in Ohio, I got a message from my sister.  She works at the same airline... okay, we covered that already.  Another of my best buddies from high school died last weekend in a motorcycle crash on I-75.  Like the friend mentioned above, this guy and I hadn't kept in touch during recent years, although we had crossed paths from time to time.  The 'drifting apart' phenomenon that friends often experience is greatly exacerbated when you have my sort of personality and simply don't give a damn.  I'm not much good at keeping those sorts of bonds active, but friends are always friends.  So, upon hearing that he had died, my reaction was similar to the previous incident.  I thought of the good times and smiled, rather than dwell on the unfortunate nature of death.  I think my biggest grin came when I recalled the ludicrous drinking binge that took place the night before I got married.  Perhaps you'll indulge me the chance to relate (some of) that story here.  It still makes me laugh.

A few of my buddies, including the departed, took me out for a really good time.  And ole Danny brought his new girlfriend with him.  What the hell is that all about?  She turned out to be pretty cool though, so nobody really minded.  Plus she was not bad to look at, provided that you could sneak a peek without your buddy getting possessive.  You know how it is.

I was drinking shots of Jim Beam that night, chased by bottles of Molson Ice.  And random strangers were buying me all that I could drink.  To say that I was shitfaced would be the understatement of the century.  The night wound up at a bar in Lincoln Park, a few miles from my apartment in Southgate.  Not long before the bar was to close, I was turned sideways in my chair, talking to a gal at the next table.  Our brilliant waitress decided to set my next drink behind my elbow while I wasn't looking.  When I turned back... elbow hits the glass, whiskey hits the floor, I'm cut off, and so forth.

Time to leave.  My buddy Dan had been the one to drive me around that night.  I was feeling awfully observant though, so I refused to get in his car, on account of the fact that he was drunk.  Obviously nobody was nearly as drunk as I was, but I tend to think I'm quite clever when I've had a few too many.  "Fuck you," I mumbled.  "I ain't getting in that car."  Then, God love him, my buddy tried to push me into his car.  I've never amounted to much in life, but I've always been a strong SOB.  He must have known better, but he tried anyway.  I wheeled around and gave him a shove, knocking him ass-first into the bushes next to the bar.  The I sprinted home.  You don't pace yourself after thirty drinks (or maybe more).  You fucking sprint.

By the time I covered the the ~2.5 miles to my apartment, I was out of breath.  No, seriously, I was huffing and puffing - big time.  The look on the face of the girl that was living with me at the time (not my fiancée - another story for another time) was priceless.  I told her I was just tired and I went to bed.

By the time I fought through the next morning's hangover and dragged my ass to the church in Allen Park, I was starting to recall the previous night's festivites.  Holy shit, man.  I parked my shitty car at the edge of the lot and walked over to the side entrance.  Who was the first one waiting for me when I got inside?  I'll bet you already know who it was.  The guy that I shoved into the bushes the night before.  Not a word about it either.  He just said that my bride-to-be was looking beautiful and that it was a great day for a wedding.  Little did we know...

So now, after we fast-forward another 14 years, I hear that the "new girlfriend" from back then was still his wife when he died.  I was around when they got married but most people who were closer to the scene than I was were convinced that it wouldn't last.  It did last though, and they had an eleven year old daughter. 

And now he's gone.  An orphan and a widow left behind.

You often hear about people who suffer some unfortunate event and cry out - "Why me?"  I guess I'm the opposite, because these two deaths have left me wondering - why me?  Nobody counts on me for anything.  My family and my few friends might miss me for a little while if I were gone, but I keep to myself for the most part.  Nobody's life would really be disrupted if I checked out.  And the thought of dying sure as hell doesn't scare me.  If eternity really is coming one way or another, then I don't think another five, ten, or twenty years on this earth are going to change my destination.  Let the chips fall where they may.  That's my outlook.

And if it's really all just a superstition and we're just destined to become dead meat, then I'm not too stressed about that either.  I've had my fun and I'll continue to do so, but when the time runs out, the time runs out.  The best you can hope for is to die with no regrets.  I can't say that I have the number down to zero, but regrets are definitely not a prevalent part of my life.  I don't fear the reaper.

But these guys - they had families.  They had careers.  They had obligations and dreams and goals.  They're dead.  I have none of that.  I'm alive.

For what?  I guess there are just some things you can't explain.