Desktop Dynamo

My friend Dave died on Christmas day.

I've been trying to write something about his dying for the past week, but until last evening the words have largely escaped me.

I didn't find out he'd died until the next evening. My wife broke the news when I got home from work, just before we had to leave for a holiday gathering with my family. She didn't want me to get blind sided by someone else.

Dave and I hadn't seen much of each other over the past twenty years. We would meet if there was a death in one of our families, or at random while we were out in the world somewhere. He stopped in front of my house some years back while I was cutting grass, and we talked a bit. Same old Dave, he hadn't changed a bit. He was that rare individual that really didn't give a rats backside one way or the other what you thought of him. He changed for no one; a constant in an ever-changing world.

We drifted apart, as many friends do, because life pulled us in different directions. He joined the Marines. I took my first unsuccessful stab at college. We still got together when we could, and we would pick things up pretty much as we left them, as if we were still hanging out every night. I've always thought that's how you can tell if someone's truly a close friend: the ability to pick up right where you left off no matter how much time has passed. Any awkwardness, any clumsy silence, and you pretty much know that any bond you once had has dissolved, eaten away by time and circumstance.

I believe our bond was undiminished, yet we drifted further apart. His life went in one direction, mine another. There was a time such a thing would have seemed inconceivable. From the day I met Dave at the bus stop on the first day of 9th grade until I graduated high school we were practically joined at the hip. His mother called us "Frick and Frack." I have no idea which of us was which, but it was a fairly accurate moniker.

Most of my weekends were spent hanging out with Dave. During the summer vacations over those years I slept at his house one or two days each week, often more. His mother served magnificent breakfasts of cheeseburgers and cold pizza. Say what you might about the damage we were doing to our arteries at that young age, but nothing says "good morning" to a teenager like a big fat cheeseburger.

Back then, Dave was larger than life to me, a formidable presence to have at my side. He was unpretentious. As I said earlier, he really didn't care what anyone thought about him. He was who he was, and if you didn't like it...well, that was your problem. He was loyal to his friends. I've made a lot of friends in the course of my life, but only a very small handful indeed truly understand loyalty. He was one who did. He wouldn't hesitate to come to the rescue of a friend, regardless of the odds he might face. It was just the way he was.

Sometimes his desire to help a friend bordered on the outrageous. A perfect example was something that happened in 1975, when I was a high school senior. I'd blown out a knee on Easter Sunday, and had to make my way around the old two-story school building in West Pittston on a pair of wooden crutches. I hated climbing and descending the steps, trying to manage the crutches, books, and full leg cast all at the same time. It was a helluva workout, made all the worst when one morning the arm pad on one of my crutches came loose. Every few steps I had to stop and pop it back in place.

I went to the Vice Principal's office and asked if I could call home for another set of crutches. I didn't want to go up and down the steps on the ones I had. I think I said I just wanted to wait in the office until my parents came up with another set. The Vice Principal thought I was up to something, that perhaps I was trying to get out of a class on the second floor.

The man had every reason not to trust me.

Not too many weeks earlier he'd learned that I wasn't coming to school until second period. On the initial day of school that year, I went to my first period study hall as listed on my schedule. Role call came. My name wasn't mentioned. Opportunity was knocking, and I certainly wasn't going to ignore it. From the next day forward, I spent first period in a nearby restaurant enjoying coffee and cigarettes. I forget how, but eventually I was caught and found myself in front of the Vice Principal.

"What class did you skip this morning?"

"None," I replied.

"Nonsense. Don't make me dig out the schedules. Where are you supposed to be for first period?"

"Nowhere. I don't have a first period class."

He was livid.

"That's impossible," he said, reaching for a thick stack of schedules while I waited patiently. He leafed through them once. Twice. A third time. Eventually, his face paled.

"You don't have a first period class," he said.

"Exactly. I figured you folks didn't need me until second period, so I go for coffee every morning."

This happened at the end of winter, fairly near to when I demolished my knee, so the Vice Principal had every reason to think I was pulling a fast one when I asked to wait in his office for a new crutch. He booted me out of the office and ordered me upstairs. I got half way up the steps when the arm pad came loose. I dropped some of my books, and they tumbled down the steps. I sat down on the stairs to fix the arm pad, and just then Dave passed the stairwell on his way to the lavatory.

"Did you fall?" he asked, concerned.

"No. The crutch busted and I dropped my books. I'm trying to fix it. I asked the Vice Principle if I could call home for another one and he wouldn't let me."

"Give me the crutch."

"Why?" I asked.

"Just give it to me."

I did, and with brute force he ripped the arm pad right off the crutch.

"Now sit right there. Don't move," he said. "And don't pick up any books. Leave everything scattered exactly where it is. I'll be right back."

He dashed off, and thirty seconds later he was back with the Vice Principal.

"See," Dave said, pointing. "That's where I found him after he fell down the steps!"

And so the Vice Principal went pale once again, this time the waxy, white color of one who sees his career vanishing down the toilet.

The rest of the school year was quite a joy for me. No more shuffling up and down the steps to class. I had a personal tutor, and finished out the last month or so of school with someone who was actually able to teach me something...all thanks to Dave.

I have a thousand stories like this, all pouring through my head. It hurts that I've lost any chance of seeing him just one last time and rehashing them over a few cold ones.

When the pallbearers carried him out to the hearse on a cool December morning, a day with a brilliant blue sky, a day sandwiched between long strings of miserable gray winter days, I stood a few yards away and saluted as they gently placed his casket in the hearse. I saluted him because he was my friend, because he understood loyalty, and because no matter how many mistakes he may have made in his life, he never let me down...not once.

Sleep soundly, my friend, and know you are missed.