Homage to a Dead Friendship
What do you do when the sun sets on a close friendship?
JT and I met as freshmen in high school in 1999 when we were both on the swim team — two of just a handful of freshmen to make the varsity team. Over the course of four years, he became one of my closest friends. We were both a little socially awkward, which I think made it easier to become friends.
We became each other’s confidantes; he had some embarrassing medical conditions and I had silly crushes. His family had more issues than mine, for which I was grateful. I could talk to him about the string of questionable boyfriends my mom had and he never judged me or made me feel ashamed. His mom was in poor physical and mental health, and my parents fought over child support. His dad was a Vietnam veteran and suffered from PTSD. There was verbal and emotional abuse. If there was ever physical abuse, he didn’t talk about it. JT himself struggled with depression, and as a teenager, all I really knew how to do was sit and listen. Sometimes we drove around and talked; sometimes we drove in silence.
JT’s biggest passion was cars, especially old Mustangs. He loved restoring them, and he looked the perfect 60s heartthrob driving his vintage baby blue Mustang with his dark hair slicked back and his blue jeans and white t-shirt. The downtown area of our Southern CA suburb had a classic car show in the summers, and when his family opened a confectionery shop, I would go help him staff the shops’s outdoor booth and sell popcorn and candy. After our “shift” ended, we’d walk around looking at the classic cars with their chrome polished to reflective perfection. He’d explain the engines and horsepower and what distinguished the ’66 model from the ’67. I’m sure I paid attention, but I don’t remember any of it now.
I don’t know why or how we lost touch. I went away to college and he stayed in town. I almost wish there was an elaborate story of a falling out, an angry argument, but we simply…stopped being friends.
JT killed himself in the summer of 2009. He was 24 years old.
I’d known he was troubled beyond what he’d experienced in high school. Through a mutual friend I’d learned he’d started doing hard drugs, and eventually began selling them. It seems the incredible business acumen he possessed had not only helped him to expand the family’s restaurant business, but had also set up a successful illicit business in the drug trade.
The void left by an extinguished friendship is real. In the fifteen or so years since we lost touch, I’ve met hundreds of people; dozens have become friends, and a small group I can confidently say will remain close friends until we die.
But nothing will ever replace those friendships which were forged in the formative years of our teens. Those years when we were trying to figure out who we were, clamoring for a place in the world, eager just to be liked and accepted by our peers. Those friendships are part of our foundation as functional human beings.
It is rare to meet someone with whom you have an instant friendship and who likes and accepts you just as you are. I’ve been fortunate to have it happen a few times, and I hope that everyone can experience it at least once in their lives.
I saw JT in early June, a week or two before he killed himself. I had just paid for my groceries at Trader Joe’s and as I walked toward the red automatic doors, they parted and he walked through. “Haunted” is the best way to describe his visage. Ragged, unwell, and just downright awful are also good descriptors. His hair was greasy and unkempt. His eyes, once beautifully expressive, were lost to the dark circles below them. He’d always been slim, but his cheekbones stood out farther than was healthy. He wore baggy pants and a grey hooded sweatshirt that was at least two sizes too big and far too warm for the summer night. In the half second we made eye contact, I was appalled. We said nothing and I kept walking.
I have many regrets. Most are of no consequence and eventually I will accept that and let them go. Ignoring someone who had once been a close friend and who was obviously struggling is a regret I will always carry. Would things have been different if he had known someone still cared? I doubt it — his problems were larger than any one friendship. Still, I’ll never know, and I’ll always wonder. I wonder every time I hear Smashing Pumpkins (his favorite band) and every time I see a vintage Mustang on the road. I wonder every time I hear about a suicide, and I wonder at times that seem to be unrelated.
I choose to publish this now, on my 35th birthday, as an homage to my lost friend. I always feel introspective at this time of year. A new year to accomplish new things, and another year of my life gone by tend to put me in a frenzy of needing to do something bigger and better, but this particular time feels different. Perhaps it’s the perpetual rancor in the United States news, or the sudden loss of a notable athlete, but I’m keenly aware of the extra years I’ve had and intend to have — that JT could have had. By writing about JT, I choose to focus on the good kid he was, and honor him in that regard.
