Eulogy for a Semi-Conscious Suicide
Despite how close we were and how much time we spent together, I never really understood Dunk. He was magnetic. He was excitable and erratic. In the teenage years, when he was sober, he got high on audacity. Later on, he found bath salts, meth and heroin, along with who knows what else … likely whatever he could get his hands on, but he never lost the manic glimmer in his eyes, or stopped radiating the feeling that he was your best friend, and you were in on the joke.
His family was broken-hearted; cold in the manner of love that he been worn to the brink. There were days, many of them, when they needed a break and so tough love is all they could muster, but they never gave up on him in the long run.
His friends, myself included, loved him with a unique loyalty. He used it to get out of (or into) a lot of shady situations. You’ve never seen someone so mouthy in the coal region who didn’t get swung at once and awhile, but Dunk could draw a posse out of any crowd, and even make his enemies crack a smile.
Sometime after his 3rd O.D., he broke. His passion was always wild, but it turned dangerous. He stalked his former lover for a year, circling her house nightly, slashing her boyfriend’s tires and stalking her friends by extension. I was one of those, and so in his last year of life, I was as odds. I missed him; even his ex wanted him to find happiness, but in that way we were in no more control than his family. When faced with a crossroads, Dunk would plow his little Sonoma into the bush, clearing his own way and just as often hitting a stump as he went.
The devil’s luck could only last so long, though we were all amazed it had lasted so long. He was a natural genius with electronics, mechanics, music, dirt bikes, and honestly whatever caught his interest for a more than a week. More than a few people felt he wasted those skills when he turned to the needle. I remember when he was building custom musical instruments by hand, making hourly was some make in a day, but he would disappear for days at a time, or get caught up in some other fascination (like snake hunting, an odd but exciting hobby for him). As a result, he often couldn’t afford to re-up his cell phone minutes.
One day he went off to rehab on the other side of the state, and he was gone for awhile. It’s doubtful that many believed in him, and I’d love to know if he had believed himself. Against his own odds, they say Dunk came home sober. Trying to get out of the area and make some money, he took work a few hours away. It was there in a hotel room that his friend and boss couldn’t wake him. An absolute fucking daredevil, he’d survived every near death experience he’d ever have until he died one quiet night of a heart attack. He was 28.
I think he was growing restless. Getting old was never part of his plan. He relied on his luck so heavily, in my opinion, because he wasn’t worried about dying. But who’s to speak for the dead? When it comes to our deepest feelings, who’s to speak for anyone?
I will say this, he described how he wanted his funeral to me many times, in his usual style. He wanted a sprint-loaded coffin, so he could scare the shit out of people weekend-at-Bernies style. He also wanted a Slayer cover band to play. This isn’t how his funeral went, it being more at his family’s discretion, but possibly the most spirited, well-known character in the county was mourned and celebrated by many people in many different ways. Some alone with tears, other playing the chords to songs he had written. Others of course, both.
I’d like to wish him peace on the other side, but knowing Dunk, I don’t think he ever wanted peace. I hope he’s found whatever it is that he did want. I hope he’s found a heaven with a truck that never breaks and a crowd that never dies down. I hope there is a special place where his soul becomes one with Jimmi Hendrix, Dee Dee Ramone and Old Dirty Bastard. Geniuses who flew higher than Earth would let them.
