It was midnight. It was February. It was fucking cold out. I was standing in front of a flaming barrel.
My sister’s friend was there. She is 16. I went up to her and gave her a big hug and asked her how it was going etc etc and then it occurred to me that it was the middle of the night on a Wednesday and that she probably had no place to sleep that night.
Oh my god, I thought. My sister’s friend is homeless. Jesus. All of a sudden all the people I had been talking to all night became very real and close to my own life and I did not know what to do. So I asked her where she was crashing and showed her where the cookies were.
Part of me wanted to ditch my assignment to cover the Homelessness Marathon and stick her in my car and take her home with me. However, this was not something I could do because she had a shifty-looking teenage character in tow and I did not want to deal with him. I think he is her boyfriend or something and potentially a large part of her drug problem. He did not seem like the most savory fellow to have in my home.
Her home life sucks. She runs away to my mother’s house and her dad calls the cops then throws all her clothes on my mother’s front lawn.
“He told me not to call him Daddy anymore. Like I called him Daddy anyway,” she said.
I was covering the Student Senate meeting with Nicolette. The Senate was trying to figure out who should be the next parliamentarian. They took a 10 minute recess and I went out of the room to check my phone messages. There was a text message on my cell phone from my other sister, Heather. She sends me messages during the day quite often telling me to call her or that she is going to visit me at work.
Elise, Jim died tuesday. visiting hours are from 2-4 and also 7-9. i cant go by myself.
My heart crumbled. I called her. I asked her where she was. She could barely talk and I told her that I would be there soon. I went back into the Husky Hut and told Nicolette that I had to go and to make sure she got interviews with everyone. Sen. Pergola said I was going to miss a good time. I said I had to go. I have to go I have to go. I’m sorry I have to go.
Jim was 24. He died of leukemia. He had been a coworker of Heather’s at her first real job at Ames. There is something special about your first real job. Every other experience is compared to it in some way, and the people that you meet there and become friends with will always hold a special place in your heart.
Through the snow I drove Heather to Auburn to the funeral home.
We went inside. Open casket. We looked at photos. We met Jim’s dad. Heather started to cry and I hugged her and told her to sit down.
“I feel so stupid. They all knew Jim way better than I did and I am the one crying,” she said. I told her it was ok to cry. These people have known all week, and you found out two hours ago that he died. This is still a shock right now.
Jim’s dad encouraged us to go up and see Jim. We did. It was surreal to see this young man surrounded by Minnesota Vikings caps, his vanity license plate off his car (JIMS RID), and other memorabilia of himself. Our eyes played tricks to make him look like he was breathing, just sleeping there among the flowers. His hands looked like wax.
I lived with a man who, when he slept, sounded like the ocean. I would lie there with my eyes closed and I could see the ocean as he breathed. Every night I would sleep next to the sea and feel peaceful and safe.
My sister Heather has a freckle on her hand.
I had a history teacher in eighth grade whom I loved and he smoked Marlboros. I remember him every time someone lights one up.
I trace the veins that stick out on my grandfather’s hand. I have done that since I was a little girl and still do. His skin is soft and every time I do it, he tells me he used to do the same to his grandfather. These little things we notice and remember because we want the people we interact with to notice and remember in turn.
A fictional interlude:
If you killed yourself, he said, who would you want to find your body?
My first thought was my mother, images of nurturing and uncontrollable Italian funeral weeping. However, she might in her guilty Catholic way blame herself So, no, not my mom.
I think it depends on how it’s done, he said. If it was bleeding to death in a bathtub of bloody rose petals, then definitely my lover.
Oh gross, I say.
Then I thought of my ex-boyfriend. Then I changed my mind. Jackass. I don’t want people to think of him as my current boyfriend, even in death. How embarrassing.
If I drove my car into a telephone pole, he hypothesized, then I’d want it to be some yuppie soccer mom with a mini-van full of eight-year-olds!
He began to laugh uncontrollably.
I thought of my roommate Paula. She might even know who to call in such a situation. She seemed really resourceful.
If I OD’d, he began, I’d definitely want my manager to find me, make it look all glamorous for the coroner.
Man, I said, you don’t have a manager. You are not quite a rock star yet.
Honey, he said, placing two fingers on my knee. You can be my manager. I know you’d make me look fabulous!
Of course, I said. Always look your best for the coroner.
We could hear the people upstairs having sex. I cringed. Ugh! Just kill me! I said, out of habit.
I thought of the coroner, EMTs, detectives, my mother.
I realized then, who I would want to find me.
God.
For once.