Friends « Black Marks on Wood Pulp / by Corey Vilhauer

Category: Friends

Nine years (and one day)

January 27th, 2012

She had just turned 21, yet I hadn’t taken her to the bar. That was a thing back then. Going to the bar to celebrate your 21st birthday.

Tons of my friends were crossing into that weird level of adulthood, where nothing seemed off limits anymore. We had just moved back to Sioux Falls, and she had come over to see the new house, and we probably made a date to go hang out; to head to the bar and to do the things that over-21 year olds do. To drink. To enjoy each other’s company. To be friends.

It was old news to us by that point. I was 24. We had become the wise sages of bar life. But she had just turned 21, and I owed her a beer.

And then, she was gone. Just like that.

I don’t remember the circumstances, and I don’t need to. I remember the important part: Beka, our friend, was in a car accident. She was thrown from the car. She was airlifted to the hospital. And she died.

She died.

She was 21.

Innocence gets dashed in any of a thousand ways. The unlucky see it dashed while they’re still young. They see it dashed as mere children through any combination of divorce or abuse or space shuttle disaster. It’s the first path toward adulthood, the understanding that nothing is perfect, and that things can be shitty at times. It’s the tragedy of youth: the inevitable realization that nothing lasts forever, and that the shelters our parents help us build are fragile, corrupted and rusting before we even get a chance to reinforce them on our own.

Yet, others hold that innocence for as long as they can. Those are the strong ones. Those are the ones that confront a dying parent with optimism, who don’t much care for the idea that death is an option, and who effectively jam the gears of adulthood through sheer will.

Beka never lost that innocence. Her smile was genuine. Her enthusiasm was contagious. Her spirit acted as if it was looped up on goofballs, always pushing for more. Always looking for fun. Always happy. Always brilliant.

That was Beka. That’s just who she was.

Beka never lost that innocence. But all of us – all of her friends, and all of her family – after that day, at least – did. We were thrust into the court of adulthood, ready or not. We could no longer count our friends by those who would show up for a party – we now had friends who could never show up, because they had passed away.

Days later, we’d spend a cold night in a Catholic church. Some of us never figured out whether we should be kneeling or praying, and we found it easy to pick out the Protestants through their insistance on continuing the Lord’s Prayer. We giggled to ourselves because that’s all we could do. That’s all you fucking can do when your friend dies. That’s all you can do to stay sane. Because, damn it, she was just a kid, and that’s all we could muster to even begin to understand the cruelty of her death.

All we could do is laugh. It was so ridiculous, otherwise.

The day we found out, Kerrie and I were in Rochester, visiting Kerrie’s sister. I got a call from my best friend Jim – one of Beka’s closest friends. He was grave. He had obviously been crying. And he told us the news.

“Beka is dead,” he said.

“What? Shit. I’m sorry,” I responded.

“Don’t be sorry. She was your friend, too,” Jim answered.

Just like that, I knew what we had lost.

When it came down to it, we weren’t close to her – not like others in our group were close to her, at least. But, then again, we were. There was no grey area with Beka – if you were her friend, you were her FRIEND. And every damned person was her friend. Because she was damned good at being the best person she could be.

I don’t think of her a lot anymore, and I know that’s a symptom of moving on. I incorrecly assume this is because we weren’t incredibly close. That’s not true.

In reality, I don’t think of her because she reminds me of my loss of innocence. Others mourn, while I would rather forget. I still wish I could go back, sometimes, to when life was without problems, where we were still naive. Beka’s passing changed all of that. She did us a favor, in one way. She forced us to grow up.

When I think about it, though, I DO miss her. I can’t help it. It’s ultimately her lasting legacy. We miss her an awful lot, but we have to move on. Not without her, but in honor of her.

It’s hard. It’s still hard.

Now, here I sit. Nine years and one day after the fact. And I still haven’t gotten her that beer.

Comments: 1

Issues Considered: Friends

Reciprocation

July 28th, 2010

I don’t believe in reciprocation for reciprocation’s sake.

If you follow me on Twitter or Flickr, I won’t follow back. Unless I want to. Likewise, I fully understand that, if I follow someone I admire on Twitter, I shouldn’t expect them to reciprocate – especially if they have no idea who I am.

Yeah. We went to school together. But it doesn’t mean I am required to answer your Facebook request.

I’m sorry to have to say this out loud, but I thought the idea of reciprocation was clear: if what you are giving to me is worth repaying, I will repay it. Otherwise, please do not assume I have enough time in my life to follow, link and friend every person I’ve ever come in contact with.

Do you guys remember when blogrolls were a big deal? There were two ways of making it onto someone’s blogroll.

Write or curate a blog that’s worth reading.
Add the blogroll’s site to YOUR blogroll, then hint that, since YOU have blogrolled THEM, THEY should reciprocate.

Number two? That’s a passive aggressive form of assumed reciprocation, and it used to run rampant. Even little ol’ Black Marks on Wood Pulp fell victim to the constant haranguing of blogroll link collectors.

Then, there’s the “I’ll follow you if you follow me” form of assumed reciprocation (let’s call it what it really is: RANSOM) that forces a disingenuous and false sense of shared admiration. And, it puts the recipient in an awkward spot.

These things occur without regard to my preferences on recommendations or relationships. I simply may not have time to offer correspondence. Or, I may be impossibly strict on who I offer praise and recommendation. But now I’ve been pigeonholed. I can ignore and be labeled as a jerk. Or I can accept and undermine my principles.

I don’t like that.

So, if you want to go ahead and recommend me, or follow me, or offer me some kind of praise, or make my life better, you need to go ahead and do it.

Just, please, don’t expect anything in return.

Comments: 4

Issues Considered: Annoyances, Friends, Technology

The Story of Phake

June 28th, 2010

A quick story on persistence.

I was in a band. It was called Phake. The name was a play on the idea that, though we had attempted to infiltrate the local punk rock scene, we weren’t punk rock at all. We were fake punkers, fighting for a niche in the local hardcore punk scene, and in the early days of ironic t-shirts I threw together a self-made number that proclaimed our not-punk-though-really-we-wished-we-were status.

It was our fifth name in a year of practicing. It stuck.

With it came a distressing label: “Not Very Good.” But, let’s be honest. That label might have been deserved.

We weren’t very good.

At that time, we didn’t care. Or we didn’t know it. A little of both, really.

But we tried, and here’s the thing: we eventually worked our way into the public conscience, like worm wriggling into rotten wood. We got better – still not good, but BETTER – and, as things often work, we stumbled into some kind of routine. Our practices sounded something like this [WARNING - shitty garage band alert.]

Then, one guy got kicked out and another guy decided he was done and soon the band was over, just as we had supposedly found our niche and identity.

I don’t bring this up because I’m nostalgic, or because I needed an excuse to play this video that our friend Jim inexplicably kept long past its freshness date, but because I realize how badly we all needed to flail and stumble and fail before we could really belong.

Except for me (the non-musician in the group) all four members ended up becoming fantastic musicians and songwriters and people in general. Some still play today. Bring the five of us back together, and there might be something special.

And while I didn’t gain anything musically, I did gain confidence, which I suppose is the ultimate instrument of a lead vocalist.

I failed. We all failed. We had a whole lot of fun and made a bunch of friends that we still hang out with today and, hey, we can all say “Yeah, we were in a band once,” and that kind of cool points doesn’t come around that often.

Given the chance – and given the friends and experiences and confidence I gained – I’d fail all over again.

Comments: 4

Issues Considered: Friends, Music, Vilhauer

Kerry Von Erich’s wooden leg

October 14th, 2009

One of my favorite jokes is the one about how Kerry Von Erich – professional wrestling’s Texas Tornado – died in a brush fire when his wooden leg started on fire.

Oh, you’ve never heard that one?

No. Probably not. It was what we call an “inside joke.” It’s based almost exclusively on the experiences, thoughts and interactions between three people – my friends John and Doug, and me.

I could explain it, but it wouldn’t be worth it. I could recall how the Von Erichs as a family were cursed – most of them went into wrestling, and nearly all of them died young. I could mention how Kerry Von Erich really did have a wooden leg, and that a drug overdose didn’t seem like a cool enough cursed death, though the prospect of wrestling with one leg seemed amazing and, obviously, pretty funny. I could describe how it was late, and we were waiting for the doors at FuncoLand to open so we could start selling Playstation 2 systems at midnight, and Doug’s sense of humor has often bordered on the absurd.

Even after all of that, you wouldn’t get it.

So all I can say is, “Sorry.”

“It’s an inside joke.”

Comments: 2

Issues Considered: Friends, Wrestling

On the parents of my daughter’s friends

July 29th, 2009

Understanding that a birthday party is for the kids (and not for the adults) we have planned Sierra’s birthday party around the kids themselves. No family, no friends-without-kids – just Sierra’s closest playmates and their parents (with one exception).

Thankfully, we’ve been lucky enough to know Sierra’s closest friends since the beginning. Many of our inner circle brought kids in at the same time – four children within five months, to be exact. So when we hung out together, our kids hung out too.

Our kids’ friends’ parents are our friends. It makes things pretty easy.

It won’t always be this way. I realized this yesterday, after wondering whether or not to invite some of Sierra’s daycare friends. Friends whose parents I don’t know. Friends whose parents I have nothing in common with. Which led to another realization:

I am completely unprepared to face the day that I don’t know the parents of Sierra’s friends.

What a silly notion, you might think. Well laugh it up – I’m completely serious. The luxury of knowing the parents of Sierra’s friends – not just knowing, even, but having close connections to – is something I never want to give up. I understand Sierra’s friends through stories from their parents. I have a connection to these kids – I look out for them as if they were nephews or nieces, caring for them like family. After all, our friends are an extended family, and we’ve been here for these kids since the beginning.

I trust them. I trust their parents. I have no qualms about letting Sierra spend the night, or go on a day-trip, or any sort of activity, with these people.

But I imagine a few years from now, once Sierra’s in school, inviting her friends to her 5th birthday party – the ones she’s chosen, from school or daycare or down the block. I imagine these parents showing up in my backyard, meeting me for the first time, struggling to find some connection outside of the pony show of a birthday party, my comfort zone smashed as I scrounge around for an exit strategy.

There’s a time in the future when I won’t want to go out for beers with the parents of Sierra’s friends. And it’s that time I’ll know that she’s growing up, making her own decisions and leaving my ideals in the dust.

I’m not sure I’ll ever be prepared for that.

Comments: 1

Issues Considered: Friends, Sierra

Soul mates still exist

July 21st, 2009

Eighteen months ago, my co-worker was single. As was Kerrie’s best friend. And though Kerrie had suggested we get the two together long before, it wasn’t until eighteen months ago that I was comfortable with the idea of fixing them up.

This past weekend, they were married in one of the most beautiful and genuine weddings I’ve ever had the privilege to attend.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want them to find happiness, or that I was a grouchy non-believe in the ways of matchmaking – it was the prospect of disaster, of knowing both parties and bracing for what I assumed was inevitable. As I got to know him – and as I understood more about her – it began to seem like a no-brainer.

A no-brainer, but still a risk.

So I waited. I held my breath. I ducked, expecting the dishes to come flying. Two opposites, two strong personalities, two lives already finely honed over nearly 30 years of movement and life.

I’ll admit. It was almost sickening to see them join so easily, melding together like sugar in water (and nearly as unnaturally sweet, damn it) taking on each others habits and enjoying each other’s company even during arguments. It was the thing you never think you’ll see – two soul mates discovering each other through the random chance of a mutual acquaintance.

Each person we meet takes something away from us. Sometimes it’s just a look, or a memory. But other times, it’s something a lot bigger – it’s an opportunity. A chance at happiness.

A new life, created through a little creative networking. Lightning striking in the perfect spot, fusing two people together – two people who had no idea what they were getting into just eighteen months ago.

To which I say, “Congrats.”

And, “You’re Welcome.”

On the loss of innocence

June 27th, 2009

Craig is a co-worker of mine, his daughter Addyson born just three days before Isaac. The proximity of time and vocation connected the two births, and had connected the two pregnancies, beginning in November when we first found out.

I went to Addyson’s funeral today. She was nine days old.

The proximity of the two births made her passing so jarring. So close. It’s clouded my thoughts since it happened, my mind imagining what I’d do if it was ours, my heart bruised from questioning why it had to happen to someone so cool. So genuinely caring. To someone who, despite my knowing only on a work level, had quickly become a friend.

Let’s be honest. There’s nothing more heartbreaking than the funeral of a baby; the white casket wheeled in, padded and adorned with teddy bears, small enough to leave nothing to the imagination. There is no doubt that we’re all there to mourn the death of a child. There is no question that it’s going to be hard.

Through the beveled walls and wooden pews, a wave of sadness quieted the room. Nothing – nothing at all, not a single word – can comfort a parent during this. There is only time. And as time hadn’t made its way into their lives, we could only sit. And hope.

Because so few in attendance knew Addyson on a personal level, I suspect we were all thinking the same things. About how horrible it must be to be in that position – to say goodbye to your own daughter, to attend the funeral of a person you had nurtured and raised through the womb, finally to meet her, only to see her taken away before you ever got the chance to know her.

And we were all thinking about what we’d do in that position. During a video of Addyson’s short life, I had to bury my eyes, squeezing back emotion. During a congregation-wide singing of “Jesus Loves Me,” I had to stay silent. I might have been as torn up as the family – not because I was close to Addyson, but because I’m so close to my own children. Because I don’t know what I’d do if they were taken away.

Do we feel worse about the death of a child because of the life we knew? Or because of what we never had the chance to know? When we ache over a young life lost, is it because of what we had discovered – the love we had found while they were still alive – or because of the potential love we could have shared?

It’s the innocence of parenthood – and the innocence of a newborn – that makes everything so difficult. No one believes their child will be taken – after all, in a karmic world, a newborn hasn’t had a chance to learn right from wrong, their innocence shielding them from judgment.

There are times I feel guilty. Though there’s no correlation, I can’t help but feel guilty. Isaac and Addyson were connected, though only through chance. Isaac survived. Addyson didn’t.

But that’s not fair – to us or to Addyson’s family. It’s not about who’s left, but who’s gone – it’s about losing a love before it could even be stoked, finding a soul mate only to have him or her taken. It’s about knowing what could have been – to be within reaching distance – and seeing it disappear.

So I sat, quietly, a whirlwind of feelings – concern, empathy, sorrow. Staring at the ceiling, fighting to keep it together, one person put everything in perspective. Kaiden, Addyson’s brother, a little boy who barely understands the magnitude of the event, looks up at his crying mother and tries to crack a joke. He laughs. I can only imagine a flicker of a smile passed by, a flicker Kaiden picked up on and, loudly, with innocence, asked his mother if things had passed.

“Are you better now?”

Probably not, Kaiden. Especially not now.

But who knows? In time, all of this will pass. Until then, though, it will weigh on our hearts – yes, even ours, those who only witnessed a fit of love so strong it filled the funeral home with emotion despite our distance – and it will continue to remind us of what we have in life.

To never take things for granted. To cherish each hug. Now, and until the end, whenever that is. So that if we’re ever put into this position, we can say with confidence that we’re crying for everything. The past and the future. Each day of a child’s life, and each day yet to come.

Feeling pain for both for what we had and the potential of what could have been. And lamenting the loss of innocence.

Comments: 10

Issues Considered: Friends, On...