Topic: Death of a Friend by David Grim

I was fairly lucky growing up... I didn't have any close friends die until I was in college. Mortality was far from my mind during those days. I was too concerned with inventing the person I would become in my twenties.

But I did eventually experience this inevitable tragedy. It was a few days after Easter, during my sophomore year at Pitt, when I discovered that one of my best friends had killed himself and the mother of his child with a shotgun. He dropped his kid off at grandpa's for Easter and then ended two lives. When I found out about what had happened, I gathered a couple of my new friends, slipped into a bar that didn't check IDs, and drank a wake for him. I told my friends about Eric...

Eric could somehow convey resignation and excitement at the same time. He'd not had an easy life, being abandoned by his mother at an early age. He got free rein from his father, who tried his best to raise two kids by himself. He was always planning to run around in the woods by his house, inviting his friends to join him in the cause of mayhem. We'd get all dressed up in secondhand Vietnam-era military fatigues, and shoot BB guns and fireworks at each other. Eric used to love to pretend we were tracking Vietcong, and would talk incessantly about the tortures we would unleash upon them when we found them. Our friend Corey had a house nearby, and he and Jules would show up to contribute to our growing squad. Eric wanted to build a cabin on a wooded hill, and had already completed it's skeletal structure when he included us in the project. I brought a litre of Southern Comfort and drank all of it while everyone else was on a scouting patrol. They came back to find me covered in puke and sleeping in a hammock. Eric was pissed at me for not waiting for their return. He had a healthy sense of team spirit, and he made a half-hearted effort to exclude me for a week or two.

One time when Corey's father was working the night shift, Eric and I went over to his house to join him in a sleep-over. We decided to watch all six installments of Faces of Death as part of some grotesque adolescent marathon. We all swallowed our discomfort and fear, so as not to betray our nihilistic laughter and merriment. Our pizza having been consumed, and the last tape finished and rewound... we went on a long night walk toward our woods. We came very close to throwing an m-80 in a gas tank that night. What had held us back?

When I went to college I lost touch with Eric and Corey. Somehow in my naivete, I believed that Eric and Corey would live static existences, allowing me to revisit and impress them with my newly acquired collegiate sophistication. Of course this never happened. Corey moved away and joined the Army. You already know what happened to Eric.

Topic: Concert

Spring 1989. I'm a senoir in high school with my own apartment. Talk about cool. Because of my living arrangement and the school's need to keep a close eye on oh-so-independent me, I tell my guidance counselor I'll be missing a few days of school. Lois wants to know why. The boys are coming to town, silly. Huh? The Dead, you know, the Grateful Dead. And so, it's approved. My grades are rockin' and my attendance is better than it ever was when I lived with my parents. She tells me to be careful, have a good time and don't go joining the circus. K, Lois.

My roommate and I head out in her fully packed Omega Moo, a falling apart piece of shit car that works well enough for our purposes. The drive up route 51 to the city takes about an hour and a half. Who cares. It's spring. We've got weed, smokes, brews and tickets. Aww yeah! Take me home.

And there it is, the big silver mushroom. I love this place cause I can run around and around and see the show from wherever I please. But before all that, there are folks to meet, joints to smoke, crafts to trade, shopping to do, brews to drink, hot hot hotties to see, and acid to find. We park the car and let out screams of excitement that could easily be mistaken for a rebel yell.

Other heads are milling around the lot in their colorful garb of the day (or week if they're really on the road). Tailgating at its finest. Some folks have blankets spread in front of their cars to display their art for sale. Clothing, pottery, jewelry, prints, bumper stickers. That's it! I wanna sell bumper stickers while I'm here. I find my favorite one, 'Garcia Later', and make a deal with the dude that made them. I'm getting them for fifty cents a pop. Sell 'em for two dollars. Voila! Drug money! This is too easy.

Let me cut to the chase here because time is a wastin. Second night. I'm still pushin the Garcia Later bumper stickers when I realize that it's almost show time. Shit! I listen closely to the passers by to see who mumbles what. Back when it was safe, cats used to walk around quietly advertising their, uh, medicine. Yeah, right. Drugs people, lots of drugs in them there parking lots. I'm looking and listening for mushrooms. It's been a while since a ventured into that part of my head/spirit.

An older guy with a fluffy beard approaches me. Did I want some? Heck yes! and he's giving me alot. Both my hands are full and I have no where to put them cause I'm heading in soon and all I have on me is a ticket and a pack of Camels. I eat all of them.

I'm super silly and nauseated in no time at all, which is what I expected, kind of. Shortly into the first set, the boys play Walkin' Blues. I'm pretty sure they're telling me to get up off my ass and move around. (Start walkin' little lady, you'll feel better.) Well alright. I'm dancin' and be boppin around and listening to every thing the band says because I know this: if you get confused listen to the music play. That's all I know too, cause that quarter ounce of mushrooms done clouded up my head. I can take it, just can't shake the pukey feeling.

The bathroom is yellow tile and the lights make my skin look blue when I look into the mirror. I touch my face to make sure I'm still there. I am. And I know better than to mirror trip. So I jet into the stall to barf. It tastes terrible, but I've just escalated my high oh high-o.

Now we're out in the west texas town of el paso falling in love with some mexican chick, when I find a peacock feather. Blessing, must be. Feather goes into hand. I climb over the string being held up by folding chairs to take my position. Of course! From behind the stage the boys in the band look like skeleton puppets. Conductor? Yes! That's me! I'm leading the band (from behind) with my magic peacock feather. Joy of joys, what do you mean I can't be here?

Back out into the mazy halls when what do I see, but a bunch of cops beating on dead heads. WTF! They're outside. I'm inside. The band plays Victim or the Crime and I don't flippin know what I did with my shoes nor can I communicate any words without the use of limricks, rhymes and fairy tale speak. Oh boy. A couple older guys try to latch on to keep an eye on me, but I'm too fast and I need to find my brother. Has anybody seen my brother? I yell. Has anybody seen my brother? He looks just like me only fuzzier.

Half time lasts a life time and no amount of the kind can smooth out this ride. I wanna look down from the moon for a minute. Can I look down from the moon, Georgie? (brother's friend - close enough) He's got his arm around me and he's telling me nice things and giving me water n' weed. A lovely moment, now back to the show.

The music is my guide and I'm following all the clues they give me. The entire universe makes total sense to me, but I can't tell anybody because my mouth is out of order. Stella Blue sends me over the edge, so beautiful I can't take another second of it. Sugar Mag's got blossoms bloomin' so I go outside to find a flower.

Right. Cop scene. Scary cop scene. Has anybody seen my brother? I sit down to smoke a cigarette and notice my shoeless feet. Gotta go back inside and find the hiding place. That's where I'll find IT. I slip right back into the show, look around me. There's Rue and Becky and Gregg and Andy and my brother who looks like me only fuzzier. Together we sway to the last song of the night. Telepathically, I tell my bro of my adventures. When he nods and says I know, I'm certain he understands. Garcia Later, sis. Much later....

Topic: The Doctor's Office

The Drive
For me, it's an uncomfortable silence in the car. Cinda's next to me. On her face she wears a look of aloofness, but her arms are held tightly across her chest like an unprepared warrior in pseudo battle stance. Unusual for her because she makes clothes, t-shirts mostly, that reveal her latest thoughts in three word statements. Sometimes she puts her wit on her bum, but mostly over her breasts. That's where everyone is looking anyway. Today, I can't see what she's been thinking about by looking at her shirt or her pants. Clearly, it's none of my business.

Fine. Fine! I reach for my beat up leather shoulder bag that sits on the littered floor of the passenger side of the car. Gum wrappers, bottle caps, stray papers, her stuff all over the place. Fumbling around my bag while we sit at a red light, I find my iPod and plug it into the cigarette thingie.

Do we have to listen to this right now?
What? S'cuse me? Come on, sing along. When I'm a walkin' I strut my stuff and I'm so strung out...I'm high as a kite I just might - what?
Mom, please?
K. You wanna talk?

Shit. I don't want to talk, for I fear the words that will come out of my mouth. My desire, to be the cool mom, the supportive mom, the mom that can keep it together in a time of crisis, is so strong that I don't want to say anything. I just want to go, wait, and see what happens to my baby girl's presence when it's over. My self can not process this fast enough.

He said he's not coming.
Woah, woah, woah. Did you say that little-
(bite your tongue woman! don't say it!)
He said he's not coming?

Commence the breakdown. She's crying. I'm about to, but I'm the strong one here and I have to keep it together. No longer able to function an automobile, I pull over. I turn off the Violent Femmes. I lean over and make my upper body available to my daughter to absorb her tears, her fear, her anger, her hurt. When the shaking stops, I bust out the lavender oil, sprinkle it around the car, then grab my cell phone.

Ty?
Um, yeah?
Ty. Cinda needs you. Get your little ass ready cause I'm pickin you up in five.
But-

Now that felt good. Taking charge of the situation. Ty, boyfriend to Lucinda for three years. They met in homeroom in the ninth grade and have been inseperable since. I wish I could hate him. I really do, but he's a good kid. They both are.

I'll be damned if I'm going to let him abandon you now.
Mom!
Cinda, you will never forget this day. Ty will never forget this day. He's coming.

Great. She's fidgeting with the iPod now, playing with the settings as her mood shifts into a state of agitation. I don't care. This isn't supposed to be easy and you're not supposed to do it alone. That boy is going to sit in the waiting room with me and all the others who have found themselves amidst a moral dilemma. And then, when we leave, it's his responsibility to take care of her. You do it kid! If you're old enough to be fucking her, you're old enough to clean up her blood.

Hi Ty.
Get in. We're running late.
Hi.

He climbs in the back. For a moment I'd like to be a bystander, just to see the looks they exchange in these moments. Gotta drive though. This is between them, and I find myself once again in an uncomfortable silence. Oh you kids! I'm sorry. I'm so sorry that they have to endure this loss. What about me? Today, I lose my first grandchild. My daughter and Ty lose their baby, their innocence and who knows what else. Thank god we get to the clinic before I can get too wrapped up in my drama.

OK you two. I'll be waiting by the car if you need me.
Mom? Mom.
You can do this. I'm certain. I love you. I'll be right here.
(don't leave Ty...don't leave Ty...go in...go on...hold her hand...tell her you love her...tell her everything will be fine...please god! just this one more thing! please?)

Ty puts his arm around her tiny waist and helps her get through the door.
The doctor's office.

Topic: Kickball: David Grim

I wasn't a popular kid in elementary school. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that I went to three of them in the space of three years. Fourth grade had promise... I had a teacher that was sensitive to the "New Kid's" plight. She arranged it so that the other whelps voted me in as class president. This ruse somehow worked for my esteem, although I had a mere 15 subjects to rule. I held my position for a number of weeks until Ms. Sensitive spotted me hitting another kid on the playground during recess. I would like to say that I learned this from Ronald Reagan's example, but in truth it was 1979. Maybe I was using Iranian terrorists as my model. Well... it all comes around, don't it??

So what does this have to do with kickball? My attack on that poor kid, who was ostensibly my friend, wasn't motivated by game-day furor. We were playing some other game, the object of which was to run through some no-man's land without getting tagged by the growing array of losers that had been tagged previously. I don't know what set me off. All I know is that Ms. Sensitive was watching from our classroom window upstairs when I did my dirty deed. One moment led to my political downfall. One oversight... on both my part and on my teacher's behalf. I was shocked and dismayed to learn I was caught. I went from hero to zero on that afternoon, and I didn't recover any social status for years.

The year after that I got shipped off to yet another school filled with kids from a higher tax bracket. I had learned my lesson. I wasn't going to lose my temper and get off to a bad start. Instead I went to the other extreme. I was all set to be chums with the popular kids. Then I made an irrevocable mistake. I allowed myself to be "turned out" by a little fifth-grade seductress. Anita Knibbe, wherefore art thou?? She convinced me that I should join her in a separate kickball game, in protest of the boys who wouldn't let her compete on equal terms. I spent a fateful couple of recesses out there kicking that inflatable red ball with Anita and a few of her female cohort minions. It was social suicide.

I had warnings of course. My newest friend Chris told me in hush, stern tones that the other boys would look askance at me for entering Anita's camp. I was a traitor to boyhood everywhere. I came to (alas) too late. Having had some serious second thoughts, prompted by some not-too-discreet smirks and comments from the blue side, I tried to switch back... leaving my new friends on the pink side to play their solitary game. But it was too late. I spent the rest of that year, before going on to middle school, wandering the playground alone... rejected by all. The thing I regretted most was the hurt in Anita's eyes. She was right after all. Her day had truly come, and I was abandoning her. We ended up finishing our public schooling together. I could have really used her help later on. But my betrayal left undertones that kept us from ever being friends. Once in awhile, I wonder where she is now. I couldn't give a fuck about the whereabouts of those nasty boys.

Letting Go in Twenty Minutes or Less

Do you hear that?
Do I hear what?
Come on baby, listen.
Listen to what? I don't hear anything.
It's the wizard. Wants me to talk to Jesus.
Fucking great. I'm just putting my buzz on and my lover's been smoking the shit again. Now, I'll have to go through the whole litany of why this can't possibly be real and remind him that he needs to eat, drink and sleep in order to function somewhat normally on so many drugs. Come on, Doors of Perception/Heaven and Hell, get with it dude.

I'm trying to be hard. I'm trying to be direct with him and talk him down, but he's so far up the tree he starts thinking I'm in on some conspiracy against him. For a moment, I let the phone drop away from my sweaty ear. It's summertime in Phoenix and the day brings with it a dry 115 degrees. There's nothing to do but sweat, douse yourself with water and sweat. Dry my ass. This is oppressive. What would be the feeling of tears falling down my face never happens, cause I'm dripping sweat as it is and I can't tell one thing from the other.

This was back in the day before caller ID, so I ask him,
Andrew, where are you?
If I tell you, you'll tell them.
Look. You're fucked up is all. I need to know where you are.
I can't tell you.
I can help you.
That's what they said you'd say.

And he hung up. It was the last time we spoke. For a few days I fretted, wondering about where he could be and what trouble he had found for himself. As an unfamiliar ache tore at my chest, I began to understand the concept of fully letting go. There was nothing I could do to save my lover. His parents found him in a closet at their house that day. Last I heard, he had gone to rehab, cleaned up and was promoting eclectic music and art events in the valley. Chances are he got out of the conversation with Jesus, too.