New story, Pt. 1

How do you properly grieve when to do so would be to give nod to a part of yourself that you don’t know how to deal with? That’s what a buddy of mine faced a while back. It tore him up. It nearly tore all of us up. Thinking about it all still makes me scratch my head and cringe. And this all happened over ten years ago now, our baptism into post-college life.

When we heard the news about James, of course we were devastated, but no one was particularly surprised. You hate to admit it, but as we huddled and talked around Dick’s basement the night we found out, most of us agreed he’d dodged so many bullets already. His luck just ran out. James had a great heart, but he was the kind of guy who played his chips a bit too fast and loose for this town’s liking.

We were friends with the guy, but it was Davey who first brought James to our group. The two of them met in college. But since long before James came around, Davey had been my best friend. He and I grew up on the same street: a sleepy, wooded avenue whose inactivity extended our wiffleball diamond from the yard onto the road. During the summer his mom would call us in for dinner during the seventh-inning stretch, and as long as the late sun of June hadn’t bled too far toward the darker nights of August, after dinner we’d go back out and finish the game. If we were lucky we’d even be able to squeeze in part of another before it got too dark to see the ball. By the time we were older, Davey had figured out how to make the wiffle ball dance, so I needed all the light I could get.

We both went to the high school less than a mile away from our homes, the school where everyone in town went. Davey and I both started for the baseball team, him at pitcher and me in right field. We were a good duo, Davey and I. Over one late-night, beer-drenched bonfire our senior year, the two of us vowed to go to the same college and be together for four more years. Thing is, while I was sending in my deposit to State, Davey was writing essays to some architecture program in Boston. I guess they were good essays, because one day Davey packed his bags and left for New England. I never really said how it all hurt me a bit, although I think he probably knew.

It was while I visited Davey freshman year that I first met James. James lived on Davey’s dorm floor, and he seemed to be a good enough guy. He was from the city, and he had a different way of dressing than most of us were used to. Davey and I had never seen much reason to wear more than a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, unless it was Sunday morning, and then Mom always made me put on slacks and a collared shirt. James seemed to always be dressed like it was Sunday morning, and he even wore cologne to the canteen. I didn’t quite understand that.

During the summer after freshman year, James came to town to visit Davey. He came off to our group as friendly, although in this awkward sort of way. He would stand before you, hands jammed in his pockets, real hang-doggish sort of look in his eyes, and he’d just wait for you to say something to him. We couldn’t help but like him, though. He was the kind of guy who really had your back. And once you got a brew or two in him, he got a lot more interesting. He’d tell us stories about what it was like sneaking out of the apartment, down the fire escape at night without slipping in sight of his parents’ balcony. And then once he was out, what kind of people and places the city held—even late at night. He was the kind of guy who would fill your glass and slide you a cigarette without expecting you to turn around and do it for him five minutes later. He just seemed happy to be hanging out with a fun group of people.

But I’ll never forget the night Davey made the truth known. No one will.