Chris and I were born a month apart. Our parents have been friends for years, and as toddlers we were in each other’s company all the time. Then, because life takes us all in our own directions, we just never saw each other again. Yet, even though I really didn’t see him much throughout our lives, I would always hear what Chris was up to, and I’m sure that he got the reports about me. That’s how we lived: A story here, a report there of kids we only recognized from Christmas cards.

When I was in my 20’s, I actually saw Chris for the first time that I can remember. He was getting married, and seemed as happy to see me as I was to see him. He was a pleasant guy, and I think I only saw him a few times after that, but every time was like having amnesia and being introduced to one of your close friends. It was comfortable, but you couldn’t place why. And then we’d go right back to trading stories through our parents again.

At some point in the last few years, something happened to Chris. I have no idea what it was, but his life went into a tailspin. The child that started off his life sitting in a playpen laughing at the giant patch on my fat baby head somehow ended up pretty heavily into drugs and homeless.

I can remember the day my mother called to tell me that Chris was living on the streets. I can remember her saying that she didn’t know what I could do, but because I had “been there”, I could somehow help. I don’t know shit about life, my friends, but I do know a lot about containing violence, addiction, and self-destruction. But, I had to admit that I had been sober so long that it was almost like I never had a problem. Or that maybe I had made a addictive mountain out of a molehill.

Your Mom will always do her best to paint you in a better light than what you really are, so when she says something like, “You know, this could easily have been you,” you can’t dismiss it. I was floored, and the point was taken. Contrary to what makes you feel superior, a lot of who and how you end up is dumb luck. So if you’re lucky, spread what little you might have to others who might not be so lucky, even if it seems minor.

I remember dialing Chris’s number as soon as I got into my work parking lot to see if there was anything that I could do, but all I could do was leave him a message asking about his life and telling a little about mine. I didn’t hear anything back, and figured that he must either be doing OK, or not interested in my patented brand of profound armchair psychology.

Surprisingly, a couple of months later, he left me a message to call him.

That was last year, and I never called him back.

In my stupid little life, I can’t really point to a single regret. I guess I think that the chips are going to fall where they may, making regret just another form of self-destruction. Maybe a phone call wouldn’t have meant shit, but I may have had some understanding that might’ve helped. And I will always know that I never made that call, and never can.

Today, they found Chris’s body on his girlfriend’s porch. From what I heard it was probably an overdose. He was a month older than me. We sat in the same playpen. We both had good parents, ended up addicts, and now he’s dead.

I generally don’t cry: Not at movies, not at weddings, not at death, but I feel weird. And shitty. And I don’t understand. And I feel so sad that he died alone on a fucking porch that I’ve just broken down unexpectedly several times and just wept into my hands.

So, here I am, mourning the loss of someone who I knew mostly through stories, trying to let go of the hope that he would eventually live happily ever after.

I’m wiped out.

Related post: Protesting the Wind

Posted in Sadness