I’ve been wandering around my dead best friend’s house for hours. It’s 2:33 am. No one is here. The radiant floors are working and feel nice under my feet. The weather is beginning to change toward fall. I can smell the burning wood piles. Outside this walled and gated community is a rough neighborhood. The bario, really.
His hot tub is purring along, 104 degrees and ready for company. I wonder where Argent his standard poodle is, and Nubbins the cat. I wonder why there is no music playing. Often there was music streaming from his multiple Alexa devices. I hate Alexa. I would chuckle every time he’d bark commands at his house but need to repeat the “living room lights to 50%” three times before it would make the adjustment. I’d long to say something like, “Just get up and adjust the lights.”
It’s a bit disorienting. I’m in my bed in Austin, and each time I close my eyes to sleep I’m wandering around my friend’s lovely home in Albuquerque New Mexico. I’m looking around the house for him or his pets. No one is around. The place is immaculate. Warm. Inviting. I know I will never see the inside of his house or his heart again.
I wonder what will become of all his amazing things. Objects d arte. Newish Lexis. The dog has been adopted by his companion. “It feels like it’s what he would want me to do. He spent so much time training and working with Argent. Such an intelligent dog.”
“Yes, I’m sure that would make him happy.”
How do you refer to the wishes of people who are dead? “Would’ve.” Or, “Will.” Or, “Does.”
Of course, he wants nothing now. His soulful elements now intermingled with the collective unconscious. He has been reimagined. Now, we have his memories, his words, the last hug we shared. We have sadness at things we can no longer joke about, cry about, complain about. He was a complainer. I guess I am too. We complained to each other.
We also celebrated each other. Listened. Took the time to hear about your life. Your dreams. Where you’re headed tomorrow.”
He was on his way the morning he died (he was sleeping and didn’t wake up at the 4:30 am alarm) to San Miguel de Allende in Mexico. A place where I spent some time as a kid. I only remember the time after her divorce when it was just the two of us. I’m sure we had gone there before. I was probably 7 or 8. I would run down the street and kick soccer balls with the local kids. I tried to communicate by adding “ia” to the end of English words. It didn’t work, but the smiles and community of kids carried on anyway. They were happy to have another player. We kicked the ball around on a narrow cobblestone street. The ball took whacky bounces. We laughed in our different languages. Called out. Cheered.
In some ways, I’m still cheering for my friend. He had made a major transition after the death of his beloved wife. Sold their wonderful house in the woods, a house that he had single-handedly improved and expanded. He had to get rid of the parrot. And he added Argent as a puppy, a companion, a project, a friend. Smart dog. He packed everything up and moved nearby his companion, who could afford Santa Fe. He installed solar. Was looking into an EV car so he could go completely off the grid and charge his car with the sun. He was an environmentalist. A member of all the nature societies around Albuquerque. He was dating, but not with much success.
“I don’t think I’ll ever have another romantic partner,” he said a few months before his death.
“Nonsense. The right women is going to come along, and you’re not going to believe how good it can be. You’re a catch. You look ten years younger than anyone on those dating sites.”
“That’s the problem. The women my age don’t interest me. You can tell when they have sort of given up.”
“Change your age. It’s fine. Everyone does it.”
“Lie?”
“Absolutely. Online dating? Everyone’s altering photos, lying about their age, wealth, what they like to do on the weekends. I mean, ‘long walks on the beach’ and ‘happy hour’ and ‘exploring new cities’ are not real insights, right? They are bullshit.”
He’d gotten on Bumble and we exchanged funny screen grabs of our “wtf” and “has potential” profiles. He was optimistic again.
“Dude, someone is going to fall head-over-heels in love with you. Give it time.”
I think was I was providing was hope. Encouragement, sure, but I’d had a successful string of long-term relationships. The most recent one might have ended, but he saw the magical effect of a loving companion.
“Would you have done anything differently, knowing what you know now?” he asked about my recent breakup.
“No. I think I took this one all the way to the goal line. It didn’t work out in the end. But I learned and loved a lot along the way. I learned what a ‘securely attached’ relationship feels like. I’ll never go back.”
We want to see our friends happy. We want to celebrate their victories. He’d been through a lot of little wins. He was on an upswing. And he had a heart defect that stoped the plans a few hours after the last text I got from him, the night he died.
He was commenting on a short video I had made of my trip to the Catskill Mountains near Woodstock. I continued with a few more updates the next morning. I got the call about 5 pm NY Time. “I have some sad news to report.”
In this sleepless night, I spent hours in my friend’s lovely home. Recalling his amazing pantry, with labeled containers filled with everything he loved. His updated coffee maker. “Do you want me to make you an espresso?” he’d ask after lunch. It was always a treat to let him do it.
“That’s good shit,” I’d say. I’ll never be able to say that to him again. Well, that’s not true. I can say it right now. And if he’s whizzing around in the Milky Way somewhere, I know he’s smiling at my compliment.
“I’ve been experimenting with different coffee blends. I really like this Organic Free Trade Mexican Arabica.”
“Me too, man. Great stuff. Thank you.”
We were lifelines to one another. “You’re much better at initiating these calls than I am.”
“It’s okay. It’s what I do.”
We exchanged a lot of “I Love Yous” in our conversations. He really was like my brother. More so than my actual brother, really. He wasn’t an alcoholic. He was doing his best to take care of his health, physical, spiritual, and financial. He was my adviser. He was about to help me map out the benefits of taking Social Security at 62, 3 months from now, or later. He loved building spreadsheets and models. I was looking forward to his guidance. I guess now, it will come from a feeling rather than a financial plan.
Okay.
I think his spirit must’ve been hovering nearby tonight. We were having a conversation in a new app. SoulTime.
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