the scene of the accident

Knot in my stomach day 2. Push through. Holidays, yuck.

So, I got through the last football game. Probably cried in the car, cried at home. Next day is the big day.

Saturday, October 29, 2016 The Memorial, and The Scene, part 1

I went to see my therapist to start the day, good thing. I believe I was solid in my decision that I was going to Love’s memorial, but I had vacillated so many times about whether I “needed” to go.

Back up. One of my [ex] male friends (that story is coming up soon too) had called me, while I was crying, I think the first night when I found out and had texted him and told me this: “You can go to the wake. But you can’t go to the funeral.”

WTh! I can’t even remember if he explained why, but I told him that I probably wouldn’t go to a wake because I had been to one earlier in the summer for a former student of mine that had died and I didn’t like that being my last image of him. If I could “only” go to a wake, I would rather not go to anything

Anyway, I think the point he was trying to make was about my “secret status” and some known or unknown code about attendance at events like these. Fuck that.

I felt like I was prepping for the Memorial all day. I didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t know who would be there in this small community of St. Pete where everyone knows everyone which means that outsiders look obvious. But at least Bo had worked in two counties, so anyone was liable to be present.

I didn’t know what to expect of myself. I reflected on my grandmother’s funeral so many years ago where I watched family members break down, collapse even. I was hoping there wasn’t going to be a body because I was 98% sure that I wouldn’t enter the church if there were.

But before I went to the memorial, I had to do something very important. I scheduled just enough time to get this in. I went to the scene of Love’s accident.

I drove to 4th Street N and something in St. Pete, following my gps. As I got nearer to the destination, I was afraid I might get in a car accident and die. I made it to J Wags — a bar — and parked crooked in the empty lot. I looked at the scene from my car. I got out. I stepped onto the sidewalk. Looked at the skid marks that the one news reporter had spoken about. I stood there envisioning how it went down on Saturday, October 22, a little after 1 am. It still didn’t make sense. I tried to feel if he were there. If he was scared. If he was pissed. If he was tired. This, in my mind, is the last place he was (although he was supposedly “alive” in the hospital for several days after).

I walked up down, closer, and closer. At one point, I felt like I was about to walk right into the road. I wanted to stand right there in the fucking middle/turning lane…or wherever he got hit. I think I did want to die — only if dying meant I could see him.

I was about to get in the car when I decided to go into J Wags. I still didn’t understand. I stepped in, and up to the bar and a waitress approached me. I asked if she knew about the accident. She said, “What accident?” I said,”The one with the Uber driver…he was my best friend. I’m on my way to the memorial and I just wanted to be here since this was his last place. Can you tell me anything about the accident?”

She apologized for my loss (and later, so did the male patron who was sitting several seats down). She described the accident. It made sense, visually now.

I asked about the passenger. I told her I had searched for info about him and that strangely, there was NOTHING. She said it was strange also. She said the rider was her friend, and that he was hurt really badly and wouldn’t be the same again. I felt that pain, too. This was the last person who was with Love.

I walked outside slowly and stood there again. I got totally fucking pissed. This area was small. There were two lanes on each side and a turning lane in the middle. To cross the street from the bar was a simple maneuver. Simple as fuck. Simple ass U-Turn that even I would have done. Even would have done it and floored the pedal to get quickly across if I saw someone coming. Bo was the ONLY man I had ever felt safe in the car with, and I had told him that. How the FUCK did he manage to fuck this up and kill himself in the worst way — a t-bone accident in his small ass Chevy Cruze (which to me inside, it felt so big), after midnight, in the dark, during a time he had no business on the fucking road? Why the fuck did he kill himself? He should’ve been home in the bed, after the game that his team actually WON that night.

But instead, his stubborn ass, have to make money ass, have to drive it into the ground ass, went to work that day, went to football, had a game, then fucking just HAD to do Uber…he just HAD to do it, even though the loan was approved, the closing date was set, everything was final. Final. Final. Final Destination. Stupid. You see, I actually got to talk to Bo on Friday, October 21 (not knowing he would die, of course, in less than 24 hours)…and the conversation…anyway…it’ll come up after I get through writing about this memorial.

I hate him for this. I even hate me for this. It’ll make sense soon. But I hate him more. The anger.