I’d thought I might get to bed early tonight, but best bud Mike dropped by to tell me our mutual long time friend Scotty offed himself last Friday with a bullet to the brain. I’ve been out of town since then, so I was out of the loop.
Well, I’m beyond, “Fuck!” There’ve been several. When Ben Crow called me, in the summer between 9th and 10th grade, with odd requests and a bit of panic in his voice, and I was being shipped out to my grandfather’s the next morning and there was nothing I could do for him anyway, I didn’t catch that he was on the verge. Self-administered shotgun lobotomy the next morning, and I didn’t find out until I got back to town a couple of weeks later.
When it became apparent that I’d been the last to talk to him, various sources felt that I should bear some kind of weight for not miraculously piercing the veil of near-future disaster and somehow preventing what was probably bound to happen. I don’t wear the guilt jacket well, so I just can’t see it as some responsibility of mine that I failed to catch.
Lemmings have run legion since then (and I know the old Disney film was a set-up) and I’ll only touch on the experiences that impacted me personally.
Sandy was next. He was my friend through the high school and post years - very popular guy who married a society babe and had a toy factory in So. Cal. And, Sandy was not a toy manufacturer kind of guy. At 22 he let it overwhelm him that he had prematurely assumed responsibilities that he could not competently meet.
Instead of farming out or bleeding down the pressure, Sandy did the bullet in the head thing. While I was extremely saddened, my first reaction was anger - at Sandy; why didn’t you just call me, pal? We could’ve worked it out. Fuck.
I have no sympathy for suicides, but I’ll admit they’ve included some people I considered friends.
Florence, Flouncie, daughter of a high-profile professional whose sisters (3) all became successful professionals - wonderful gal who just felt like she didn’t measure up - .38 to the brain.
Now Scotty. He floated rumors of incurable disease. My first reaction was, “He has kids!”
Mike and I called his cousin (my college roommate of several years) to offer condolences. While cousin was contrite, he also offered up that there was no health problem, but there were significant financial disasters going on.
You fuck your wife and kids over dollars? Hmmm…, perhaps I’m out of the loop.
