I close my eyes and I swear I can feel the sun on my cheeks, taste the sweet juice of the strawberries we were eating, hear his perfect goofy laugh. Sitting on his porch on a warm Missouri day, must have been in the spring or summer. Without a care in the world, just us together doing our favorite thing — eating, laughing, and shooting the shit.
I remember waiting in line at the Barnes and Noble at Zona Rosa for the midnight release of one of the Twilight books. We were obsessed. We had made necklaces and jewelry of wolves and clear diamond hearts for the occasion. We came straight home to my house with our new prized possessions, and we laid next to each other on my bed, reading, together but in our own worlds. We stayed up all night reading without stopping. He finished before me, of course. He was always so effortlessly smarter than me, but never in a pretentious way. I loved that about him so much.
Like most, I remember all the mischief we got into as bored, rebellious teens. Smoking corn cob pipes in the woods, stealing clothes from Hollister, smoking cigarettes in his friend’s convertible car when she came to visit, driving Mrs. Slaughter insane with our antics. Sure, we were not only annoying but actually engaging in illegal activities, but goddamn he was the most fearless person I knew, maybe ever knew. He was always itching for more, to push the limits, to try new things, to question anything he was told. I followed along, always enthralled and scared but wanting to keep up and impress him. He was so brave.
There was a time we were forced into in-school-suspension together for a week — wrongfully so, might I add. We were simply artistically expressing that one of our teachers was a complete and total pervert, which naturally I suppose he didn’t take too kindly too. Nevertheless, we are supposed to be silent and isolated while in ISS. We are actually forced to sit in these small cubbies with walls around us, so we can’t see or hear the other kids. All day long like that, working on homework and quizzes and bored out of our fucking minds. Naturally, that just didn’t cut it for him. And naturally, he found some way for the teacher to grant us special permissions. Somehow by day 3, he had worked his magic, and we sat side by side on the floor of the ISS room, silently giggling, drawing together — probably some god awful twilight doodles about loving Edward and Jacob. But like always, he had found a way for us to be together, which always made every experience special, even ISS.
I remember making these god-awful gin drinks and this god-awful soggy popcorn (“movie theater popcorn” just meant a melted butter stick over microwave popcorn) and laying on his floor to watch Across the Universe together. And we laughed and cried and talked about the meaning of life.
I remember when he was kicked out of his house and came to live with me. What a treat that was, as for a month or two we were able to spend every second together. I loved being able to provide a home of solace (thanks mom and dad) and I especially loved having my best friend around, who had became like a sibling to me. It only seemed fitting to make it official by inaugurating him into the H household.
I have such happy memories of field trips together to the Nelson Atkins, imitating the artwork; attending one of his parties/displays for the magazine he created and staying for this wonderful slumber party complete with Darth Vader piñata; pretending to be Wiccans, “casting” spells in the woods with some cheap stones we likely stole from Life is Beautiful; forcing him to draw beautiful portraits of Bob Marley and Mohamed Ali on Vans shoes to give to my boyfriend at the time (which of course he did happily without asking for anything in return); decorating gingerbread houses for Christmas with him and his family, because he always let me be a part of his family; riding in the car with him, blasting music, singing at the tops of our lungs; creating dances together, him always indulging me and my propensity to force choreography on him; writing a screenplay for a movie we were going to produce one summer, for which we made all the props but never filmed a single line.
After college we were living in Kansas City together again. I wish I had seen him more. I think that’s always how the people left behind feel — full of regrets for not doing enough when we had the chance. But despite my preoccupation with my current boyfriend at the time, I remember asking him for help with work. Asking him to freely give his craft, to record and produce for me for my job. Without hesitation he said yes, of course he said yes, and he committed to hours of video interviews and travel and editing on his computer. He did it all, without a second thought, and without asking for any money. And because I was poor as fuck at the time, I didn’t give him any, and he still loved me anyways. He was always so selfless and giving, especially when it came to art. And god he was so good at it.
That year in Kansas City, we used to occasionally get Vietnamese together. It was one of my favorite ways to spend my work lunches. We’d meet at our favorite spot, iPho Tower, and he would always be dressed in something quirky and interesting, something I’d never be confident enough to try. And he’d talk a million miles a minute about some new project, or about his girlfriend at the time. And he was always so animated, and smiling, and giggling. I don’t know how he was always seemingly so happy but god I loved him for it. He turned my mood around more times than he probably ever knew.
I think it’s amazing how he was always innately such a kind human. I think about how shitty I was in high school, about making others feel excluded or judged or bad about themselves, and it seems crazy because I was around him for most of my formative years. And he would never have dared. He was “woke” long before “woke” became just another mainstream term whites abdicated from POC. He lived his life so freely and without apology, he would never have dreamed to judge or put someone else down for how they lived theirs. He made everyone feel accepted and special and validated.
I remember his room. So many hours of my life spent there. Drawing with him on his chalkboard wall, indulging in illicit antics in his closet, dressing up in costumes and clothes, sitting cross legged on his floor talking for hours. So many nights putting on makeup in his bathroom, creating stories we swore we’d write down and sell as novels one day, living our lives together.
I remember how much he inspired me in our classes together. Once again, he was so effortlessly brilliant, and never in a way that put others down. I used to beg the gods for artistic talent like his, to be able to draw like him, to be able to write like him. I looked up to him so much. We were both obsessed with Christopher Pike’s macabre teen-mystery novels. One unit in school was focused on utopian/dystopian futures. We had to write our own dystopian novel and create a 3-D display of the dystopian world. Naturally, I wrote my novel a la Christopher Pike and the last chapter ended with the protagonist jumping to her own death after watching her beloved assassinated by an evil president (yes I was dramatic and corny AF). My teacher forbid me from publishing it. And Nico, naturally, was indignant on my behalf, up in arms, ready to fight the unholy censorship of a writer’s craft. He wrote out an entire discourse on censorship and presented it to our teacher. She still censored my work (I mean come on, it was Liberty, MO), but man I’ll never forget that fierce loyalty and fight for justice.
It’s overwhelming how prominent he was in my formative years, actually. As I’m writing this down I’m flooded with so many more memories, all of which feel so important, some so small and simple, some so big and difficult to transcribe. All of which I have this hungry urge to immortalize in writing because I don’t ever want to forget a single detail of this amazing friend who I didn’t deserve. Even in the more recent years, when 5 years had passed without seeing one another, I was elated anytime we messaged over some silly high school memory, or anytime he liked a picture of mine. Shallow, frivolous things, but coming from someone with such a deep, special history in my life. God I miss him and his beautiful, bright, vibrant soul. Rest in piece my sweet, sweet friend.
01/01/1992–11/01/2019
