Today is the 17th anniversary of S’s death.
S was one of the funniest, most obnoxious people I’ve ever known.
He could make me laugh and laugh,
even when I didn’t want to give him that satisfaction.
But S was also fiercely loyal.
I went through a rough time when I was eighteen.
I’d just finished my freshmen year of college
and wasn’t sure where to go from there.
One particularly difficult night
there was a lot of drama
involving an apartment lease and some so-called friends,
and I just needed to get away.
I called a cab and S left the group to come with me.
But it wasn’t until we were somewhere in the boondocks outside Madison
that we realized we didn’t have much money.
After a somewhat panicked, whispered consultation
we asked the driver to stop.
We gave the confused man all the money we had and got out.
Then S and I walked.
I don’t remember all the remaining details
but I know there was swearing.
And laughter.
Followed by more swearing and laughter.
But at no point was there finger-pointing, blame, guilt or shame.
S was my friend.
My best friend.
He knew I was already hurting enough.
The next day, though,
there was undoubtedly hell-to-pay.
S could only rein it in for so long.

