Bored, late-night browsing gets me into some weird mindsets and brings up weird memories and research topics. Tonight, through a series of articles, I was reminded of a close childhood friend, and someone I regarded as my personal hero. The person I always aspired to be, but I was never confident enough. Or attractive enough. Or “built” enough. Or… any number of things. He was, I told myself, what I’d be if I weren’t so consistently a fuck-up, and pretty much the polar opposite of all the things I saw in him.
This was the man (well, boy, really.. he was actually 26 days younger than me) who introduced me to D&D and roleplaying.. Introduced me to martial arts. To Frank Frazetta. He taught me how to throw shurikens, wield nunchuks, and eventually how to throw knives. Most of this occurred before we were 10 years old.
From there, we moved onto making our own non-lethal weaponry so we could spar with each other. By the time we were about 13 years old, he and I would hold knife-fighting competitions in the empty desert lot behind his house. That’s where I got my first (and so far, only) not-self-inflicted knife wound. I also stabbed a mutual friend of ours in the leg, which none of us thought was a big deal at the time, but that friend’s mother “banned me” from ever going into his house. Suddenly, Kevin’s mom started wondering if maybe I was maladjusted. Telling her “c’mon, we were all just fucking around – look, I’ve got a knife wound, too!” didn’t help matters.
Kevin was the person who introduced me to classic punk, when I was 12 years old. We even started our own punk band – Flaming Urine (I don’t think Flaming Lips existed at the time, that name was just something Kevin thought would get people’s attention). We made t-shirts for the band out of puffy paint, featuring an upside-down toilet dripping urine into a wine glass on fire, and I got into a fight in 7th grade when some jock tried to light the shirt on fire while I was wearing it. Hanging over at Kevin’s place and writing angry, screamy punk songs about slaughtering said jocks really helped me get through that time.
Together, we attended our first concert, at 13 years old, which was Social Distortion supporting The Ramones. At the time, we had no idea who The Ramones were. We were there for Social D. After the show, we both picked up a few Ramones albums and that became a soundtrack for our shenanigans for a little while. I can remember asking my sister to take us to a crusty underground punk club in downtown Phoenix to see Green Day (this would’ve been just before the release of Dookie). Her respons was “I’m not taking you to see some stupid punk band… jesus, Mitcz, you’re 14 years old”. Almost a year to the day later, my sister would pull up to our house in her Jeep, rocking Dookie and asked me “have you HEARD this band, Green Day? They’re amazing”. *Le sigh*.
In my freshman year of high school, his girlfriend was transferred to my school. Nad and I immediately befriended her because it was like having a piece of Kevin with us in our crew. And, it increased our odds of seeing him at some point. Didn’t hurt that she was a gorgeous punk chick and we were (and, frankly, still are) a couple of geeks with good taste in music.
He got wilder and wilder over the years. I remember him coming to visit me one summer afternoon and my mother almost screamed cause he walked in with about 10 safety pins throughout his ears and face, and only one lock of green hair on an otherwise shaved head. A little while later, he started moving beyond just smoking a little weed and was getting into coke and speed.
Since he lived on the other side of town from me, as I grew up, I ended up moving further and further away from him. By the time I graduated high school, I hadn’t seen him in probably 2+ years.
During a short trip to Phoenix while I was living in Seatlle, back in ‘99, I saw him at the mall. He looked all fucked up. He had this strange, disheveled look on his face, was thoroughly unwashed, and told me “you look good, man”. He was impressed that I was running a web design business in Seattle. My life imitated the movie SLC Punk when the conversation ended, as he said “so, uh… how ’bout kickin’ a couple bucks to your old pal, Kevin? I could really use it, man. I’m …. ya know, I’ve just been couch surfin’. Me and the backpack”. I couldn’t tell you if I gave him any money, but I remember a piece of me dying as I sat there and looked at him. This was my fuckin’ hero. Reduced to panhandling at the fucking mall and living out of a fucking backpack.
That was the last I ever saw of him. And I always wondered if he managed to get back up on his feet again. This was a man with amazing potential, incredibly brilliant, charming.. you name it. Honestly, everyone I ever introduced him to wanted to be his best friend within minutes.
So, tonight I went Googling. I was pleased to find posts he’d made on a number of spiritual websites, where he was looking for other buddhists to convene and meditate with. A few clicks later, it appeared he had a nice little group going, and even found a temple he could hold gatherings at. The few photos I could find throughout those sites showed a grown, 30 year old Kevin. Clean, clean shaven, looking healthy, slim (but not scrawny), and he seemed very happy. Way to go, man. Fuckin’ rock on. He even had a meetup group where he was helping people learn French. When the hell did he learn French? Crazy motherfucking genius probably learned it in his sleep.
A few clicks later, there’s mentions of a church. I thought maybe his spiritual quest had led him to Christianity or some such thing. A few clicks later, and it all made sense…
He passed away back in February. A mere 7 months ago.
Had I done this search before then, I could’ve connected with him. Maybe even had lunch with him on one of my occasional trips to Phoenix. The obituary was pretty short on words, but it mentioned “a long, hard battle”. I wonder if he had Cancer, as that would probably explain the sudden interest in Buddhism. I’d contact his family, as their information is contained in the obit. But, they probably wouldn’t talk to me, and it’d probably be painful to have to connect with yet another friend of Kevin’s. God knows they’ve probably had enough of those. His mom would likely still think I was a maladjusted, though now fully-grown, boy.
So, Kevin… I’m sorry. I should’ve stayed in contact with you. I should’ve at least made an effort. I’m a terrible friend sometimes, and I wouldn’t be half the person I am had it not been for you. Hell, I’m still just a geeky little fuck-up, but I’d like to think you’d be proud.
Rest well…
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