Yesterday afternoon I learned I’ve lost a friend.
We met Doug in the summer of 1999.
Zebu had just turned three and Wildebeest was about five-and-a-half.
We were new volunteers at the spaghetti dinner and several old-timers
weren’t happy having young kids underfoot.
But Doug wasn’t one of the cranky ones.
He always made us feel welcome.
Doug had a smile that came from deep inside; you felt his warmth.
Doug sometimes cooked the spaghetti and sometimes served it out in the dining room.
Many called him Noodles.
Others called him Montana.
Something to do with a t-shirt he wore the first day he walked into our director’s
used bookstore.
Doug loved books.
Maybe more than anyone I know.
Signed-first-editions kind of love.
When Doug learned I’d written a novel, he gushed all sorts of compliments.
Told me I was amazing and that he was in awe.
He begged to read it.
I gave him the three-ring binder holding the single-spaced manuscript.
My first novel.
My mess-of-a-novel.
He didn’t finish it.
I got mad and demanded he return the manuscript.
He gave it back without a whole lot of apologies.
But then when he turned me onto so many great writers like
Larry Brown and Larry Watson
Pete Dexter
Sherman Alexie,
and I shared these new-to-me writers with my parents and brother
who loved them, too,
I understood why Doug couldn’t read my book.
Doug knew his literary shit.
When I mentioned I was submitting a short-story to the Boston Review
Doug was already familiar with the work of the fiction editor, Junot Diaz.
Junot Diaz who five years later won the Pulitzer for The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao.
Doug knew his shit.
I think I was responsible for Doug reading White Teeth by Zadie Smith.
He’d already heard of it, of course,
but I’d like credit for one literary assist.
But Doug wasn’t just about the books.
He struggled with addiction.
Heroin.
He was clean when we met and I later learned
his brother had taken Doug into the woods
and belted him to a tree while he went through withdrawal.
A few years back something changed for Doug
And he started using again.
I’m trying to remember what, if anything, I did to reach out.
I think I sent some emails and left a few unreturned voice mails
But mostly I kept out of the way.
I knew it was something Doug had to do himself
And I waited for him to get back in touch after he’d beaten those demons.
On March 5, the demons won.
Doug died of an overdose.
In an alley.
54 years old.
I can’t believe he’s really gone.
Last night I broke the news to the boys.
Zebu said he had no memory of Doug.
Wildebeest told us about conversations he and Doug had at the spaghetti dinner.
Jokes they shared.
Wildebeest told Zebu, “You would’ve liked him.”
I told Zebu, “You did like him, you just don’t remember.”
My heart hurts with missing Doug.
He was an extraordinary person
And now he’s gone.
Forever.
But I’m grateful he’s no longer in pain.
I hope there’s some enormous bookstore in the sky
where Doug is kicked back
discovering the next great voice.
May he rest in peace.
Tracy Abell 
*hugs*
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Thanks for the hug, Julia. I know you’re familiar with this pain having lost a friend recently.
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I have tears in my eyes. I’m so sorry,Tracy. My family has some addicts in it and it’s a nightmare scourge.
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I’m sorry about your family troubles. It is a nightmare that you have no control over. I wish I could’ve helped him but I know I couldn’t. I only hope he knows how much I cared. And that he’s missed.
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Oh, I’m sorry, Tracy. He sounds like a really nice person. I believe everyone has demons but some of us can keep them better hidden than others. Hugs.
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You’re so right about those demons, Barb. He was a kind man with a ready smile who was nice to little kids, and I wish he’d been able to overcome what dragged him down.
Thank you for your kind thoughts.
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I guess you told us in the title where we were going, but it still hit me like a punch in the belly after you’d led us through his life to that point of no return. Ow ow ow. It sounds so very hard. I’m glad you had those good times and books to share.
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I’m sorry. I tried very hard to be upfront so I wouldn’t blindside anyone with this. But you know, even though I knew where it was going, I felt blindsided, too, as I wrote it. I guess that’s part of the catharsis. Crying along the way.
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No apologies please! I meant only to compliment the power of your writing. You were perfectly upfront. Sadness and tragedy is part of life and it is cathartic for all of us to see that put in words. Hugs.
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Thank you, Jeannine.
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Hugs to you all — and yes, may he finally have peace!
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Thank you, Robin. His peace is the only solace in all this.
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You’re so right about those demons, Barb. He was a kind man with a ready smile who was nice to little kids, and I wish he’d been able to overcome what dragged him down.
Thank you for your kind thoughts.
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I am sorry. This was a wonderful tribute.
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Thank you, Lizzy, for taking the time to read about my friend.
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you’re a wonderful friend, Tracy. {{{hugs}}}
I have another RFK quote for you from his eulogy of MLK:
“Let us dedicate ourselves to what the Greeks wrote so many years ago: to tame the savageness of man and make gentle the life of this world.”
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Thank you for your kindness, Doc. And for that beautiful quote (which I recognize from the title). I’m going to have to get a copy of that book.
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you’re a wonderful friend, Tracy. {{{hugs}}}
I have another RFK quote for you from his eulogy of MLK:
“Let us dedicate ourselves to what the Greeks wrote so many years ago: to tame the savageness of man and make gentle the life of this world.”
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Sorry to hear about your friend, Tracy. I love that image of the bookstore in the sky and I’m hoping he’s kicking back there, thumbing through pages too.
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Maybe he’s hanging out with Larry Brown, talking books. Laughing loud. I sure hope so.
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