Archives:
February 3-February 9, 2008
February 3, 2008
I've never seen The Axis as quiet as they are here now, seated in this waiting room at the campus police station. Teri holds my hand tight as she occupies the last available seat, and I lean against the wall beside her.
The police took Cameron into a back room alone, leaving us to stand there, watching officers move back and forth between us, in and out of work, carrying paperwork, their radios blurting out bits of information, half buried in static.
The police found a body out behind the Hammerhead. Cameron's back there to verify it's Dave. It seemed like a formality for the police. For us, this is anything but a formality. We're waiting for Cameron to come out and say that it wasn't him—that we may not know where Dave is, but he isn't dead.
I remember seeing Mike off last night, as he was headed back to the airport. The guy went out of his way to visit us for a day, coming back to his old school. I wish we could have shown him a better time. As it stood, he was sitting around, waiting for word on Dave with the rest of us. He was gone long before we got the call.
Emma was gone long before that time too. It took Mike a minute to recognize her, with her red hair. As the two started to talk, I saw Emma's eyes keep drifting to Teri, until she ended up saying she had homework to do, and giving Mike her place in the game. I thought about calling her when we headed over to the police station this morning. I figured there wasn't any point in it—that it would only make things awkward, and be another body at the police station. Cameron was already on the phone with one of the guys from the band as we left.
I look down at Teri. I feel bad for having her around for all of this. She doesn't know Dave that well, and I sort of get the feeling she's only been hanging around for my sake. In a sense I appreciate that. In another sense, I wonder who's covering for her with all of the SA work she should be getting done, or how she's going to catch up on the homework she said she had to do this weekend.
The door swings open. Cameron's lower lip trembles as she comes out. A female officer follows right after her, a hand on her shoulder. She makes eye contact with me and nods. “It's him.”February 4, 2008
I'm staring at the ceiling when I hear the knock at my door. It's difficult to tell how much I've slept between last night and this morning. I know I've been staring at the ceiling on and off for 10 hours. I know I've caught myself waking up a few times.
The knocking comes again, and I sit up. My first thought is that it's Teri. She wanted to stay with me last night, but I needed some time alone. I suppose it's nice of her to follow up now, I would have just as soon taken another ten hours, lying here on my own.
When I open the door, it's not Teri awaiting me at all. “Gabby,” I say, scratching the top of my bed. “What are you doing here?”
“Hey Preston ,” she says, pushing some hair behind her ear. Her hair's a lot shorter than it was the last time I saw her. It looks good on her. “How are you doing?”
“I'm OK,” I sort of lie, rubbing at one of my eyes.
“Do you mind if I come in?”
I step inside, opening the door wider, so she can come in. I'm a little embarrassed with the room, still in the state it was when we left for the police station the day before—an open pizza box, with one slice left on the floor, separate hands of cards lying out from the last game we didn't finish.
“I heard about Dave,” Gabby says. “And I'm really sorry.”
“Yeah.” I chuckle dumbly. “It sucks.”
“The autopsy results came out this morning—I don't know if you've heard. But it looks like it was a drug overdose.” She looks down. “They said it was heroin.”
“Heroin?” I shake my head. “Dave drank a lot, and I know he smoked pot—but that's a little over his head.”
She shrugs. “It's just what I heard.”
“How would you hear that anyway? The police aren't going to release to anyone but family—at least not now.”
“There are ways around those rules. You know how it goes.”
I'm not sure how it goes. I suppose a newspaper with SA's full backing might have some more resources than the one I left behind.
“Anyway,” she goes on, “we have to run some sort of story on this. I mean, the death of a student is front page news any week. Make it the lead singer from the most popular band in town and there's no getting around that.”
I nod. “You've gotta do what you've gotta do.”
Gabby swallows. “The thing is, with Dave being in the band, and the drug thing—this isn't necessarily our standard article about a student death, where we quote people who knew him and thought he was great. This is a scandal.”
I nod again.
“I don't know what to do with this, Preston . So I'm coming to you on two levels—as Dave's friend, and as my mentor at the paper.”
“I'm not in the newspaper business anymore.”
“That doesn't keep you from having an opinion,” Gabby says. “Look, I know how close you were to Dave—so I want to do this right.”
I sit down at my bed, looking at a bare patch in the wall, between two posters. It's the crack where two cinderblocks meet, painted over in plain white. “You've gotta do what you've gotta do. I trust your judgment.” I don't look at her, still staring straight ahead. “Thanks for asking, though.”February 5, 2008
“You've gotta even them out,” Teri says, snatching up one of the little balls of dough I had just laid down on the cookie sheet. “Otherwise the cookies are going to be all different sizes.”
“What's wrong with different sized cookies?” I ask.
“Well then people are going to fight over the big ones.”
“What people? You and me are gong to eat them,” I say, picking a glob of dough off of one of her cookies, and reaching to put it on another.
“No!” She giggles as she grabs at my hand, and we struggle over that little piece. In the end I let her win. I watch her as she rolls into a neat ball again, her shoulders bobbing under the cover of her sweatshirt.
I look around Teri's little kitchen, the counter powdered with flour and sugar, a few stray chocolate chips. I'm glad she dragged me over here today, getting me out of my room for the first time in over a day.
“All right, can you open up the oven door for me?” she asks, a cookie tray in each of her hands.
“You've got it,” I say, heading to the oven. I manage to press my palm to the oven handle, keeping my greasy fingers off of it. Teri stoops, getting all of the cookies in the oven.
“All right, hard part's over,” Teri says. “What do you want to do now?”
I shrug. “I don't know.”
“Well, we could flip around on the TV,” Teri bobs in front of me, tilting her head until our eyes catch, “or pop in a DVD. Or we could play a board game.”
I look at Teri as she begins to chew on her lower lip. Her mind's racing, searching for something to keep me occupied. I know she's trying to help, but I don't think there's any keeping my mind from drifting back to Dave.
“Why don't we start by cleaning up in here some,” I say, turning to look back at the messy counter. “Then we can turn on the TV or something.”
I look back to her and she nods, looking sad. I feel bad that I can't let her help me any more than she is already. I wonder if she gets that. I turn away again, headed to the sink.February 6, 2008
“Hey, there he is,” Chang says, pointing at the TV.
I squint, looking closely at the fuzzy picture on the screen. We're eight and a half minutes into the fourth quarter of Mike's first game with the Austin Knights. The Knights are up 83-61, and both sides are empty their benches, which means Mike is getting his first minutes of the game.
“He looks kind of little out there,” Chang says, sitting at the end of his hotel bed, popping a cocktail peanut in his mouth.
I scoot to the end of mine, setting my newspaper aside. We're here in Dave's hometown to attend his funeral tomorrow morning. “Well, the NBA guys have gotta be huge—bigger than anyone he played against at Taylor .”
“Yeah, I guess you're right.”
On the screen, Mike tugs at the bottom of his shorts a little, lining up outside the paint as one of the opposing players steps to the free throw line. The guy hits his shot, and the ball is back in play. The Knights point guard passes the ball inside to the center. Mike cuts, but by the time he reaches the basket, the center is throwing up a hook shot. It rattles in and out, and other team snags the rebound.
“It's too bad Dave couldn't be here to see this,” Chang says.
I nod. “Of course, this is about the last place he'd want to see it—back home, and fuzzy reception to boot.”
“I guess you're right.”
An opposing forward scores off a lay-up. The Knights bring the ball back up. They pass it around the perimeter, and Mike gets his first touch, before passing it back to the point guard. The guard penetrates then kicks it back out to Mike. Mike's defender is slow getting back to him.
“Here we go,” Chang whispers.
Mike hauls up a shot from just beyond the three point arc. He gets clobbered on the release and falls to the hardwood floor, but the shot falls right down through the hoop, to the cheers of the crowd.
“What a shot by—” the commentator pauses, as if he's looking up Mike's identity, “by Michael Weaver, a guard playing his first game for the Austin Knights.”
Mike's teammate gives him a hand getting up, and then he steps up to the free throw line.
“This insane,” Chang says. “Mike—he's really doing it.”
Mike wipes the sweat from his forehead, then exhales, holding the ball at his side. He bounces the ball twice then takes his shot. The ball hardly ripples the net on its way in, to complete the four point play.
February 7, 2008
It's a little strange to be sitting here, in the pew of a Catholic church, to honor the memory of Dave. In all the time I had known, I don't think I ever heard speak of religion or God—unless it was part of a curse. That, or singing along to Bob Dylan's “With God On Our Side.” I remember him saying he wanted to cover that song with The Axis, but he didn't think the other guys would be into it.
The guys from the band line one of the back pews. It's strange to see them in this context too—not only in a church, but dressed all in black, button up shirts and sweaters—Lenny's even sporting a crooked tie.
Dave's sister gives a reading.
I remember reading in our room freshman year, doing everything I could to stay focused, only to have Dave thwart every attempt. He would be working on a paper at his desk, then back, one foot pressed against his desk as he pitched some idea he was working out to me. It was usually an idea it would be difficult to write on. If he could maintain his point of view through the point where I didn't care enough to contradict him anymore, it was a victory, and he'd put the idea into play.
I think about looking at Dave in his open casket at the wake yesterday. It was unreal. They cleaned him up well—shaved off his scruff, put him in clothes I'd never seen before. I remember seeing how sad his family looked—all of the tears, all the looking away, just the way I did. Dave described his family in caricatures—a conservative father, a flaky mother, a sister with some cool potential, if she could shake off her jock friends. He didn't talk about them much, or travel home often, and I suppose I always figured they didn't care to see him any more than he cared about seeing them. Maybe they didn't. But they were still damn sad yesterday. They're still sad today. Maybe that's just what death will do to you.
In this moment, I think of all the things I never said to Dave. I should have thanked him more for that weekend he invited me to travel with the band. It's one of the best weekends I ever had. I should have made more weekends like that happen—it's not like Dave would have said no. Then maybe he wouldn't have been with the band so much—and maybe he wouldn't have been partying as often—wouldn't have been shooting up heroin.
Chang sits beside me, staring straight ahead. I'm not sure he's blinked the entire time we've been here. I think of how we should hang out afterward—more than just the drive back to Taylor , but every day. I think of how he could just as easily be gone tomorrow—and the guy doesn't even know he's my brother.
I think of one of the last times Dave, Chang and I were all in the same place at the same time. It was my birthday, when Dave invited us to come to a party at his place. I remember thinking the house was disgusting, and that I didn't have any interest in hanging out with those people. I know I didn't exactly fit the mold of his friends by that point. But he still went out of his way to invite me over—to have every person there sing happy birthday to me. And what did I do in return?
I left after twenty minutes.
I feel Chang's hand on my shoulder. It's only then that I'm conscious I'm crying again. I drag my sleeve over my eyes, wiping it away. On the way back down, my hand brushes the cigarettes Dave gave me, tucked in my shirt pocket.
I think I'll carry them for a while.February 8, 2008
I wake with a start. I had a dream where I slipped on some ice, and just before my ass would have made contact with the ground, I find myself in Teri's bed. I rub my knuckles against my eye, exhausted. I look at the clock, and find it hard to believe it's only 11:50 p.m. I've been wiped since I got back from Dave's funeral yesterday, and after dinner tonight, there was nothing I wanted to do more than go to bed.
I reach out grab the water bottle I left on my dresser earlier. I drink deeply from it, until the plastic bends, crumpling in on itself.
I try to remember where I was walking in my dream, or what led up to the fall. I think Teri was walking with me.
All at once, I remember Teri's with me—I remember thinking, before I fell asleep, how nice it was that Teri gave up her night to go to sleep with me. I turn to see her.
My elbow collides with something hard.
Teri screams. I roll the other way, out of bed. “What's going on?”
“What the fuck, Preston ?” she says, almost a scream. “You just elbowed me in the face.”
I scramble to turn on the light.
“What the fuck?” she says again, hand over her face.
“I'm sorry.” I say, hand on my forehead. “Are you okay?”
She pulls her hands away. Her nose is covered in blood.
“Oh shit.”
“How bad is it?” Teri asks, as she looks down at her hands. I don't have to offer a response before she's up, and on her way to the bathroom. She screams again, I imagine at the moment she sees herself in the mirror. She comes back out, tissues over her face. “You are bringing me to the hospital right now.”February 9, 2008
I sit down beside Teri in one of the plastic chairs of the hospital waiting room. She holds a zip lock bag of ice, wrapped in a paper towel, that we haphazardly prepared at her place on our way out. It's mostly melted now, and she has to support the bag of cold water with both hands. I'm not sure it's doing any good any more.
“I got Reese's,” I say holding up the little orange bag of Reese's Pieces. I know what a pathetic offering it is.
Teri greets it with a roll of her eyes, and doesn't even take the candy. She looks toward the waiting room again.
I've never been in a hospital at this hour of the night, and it's sort of strange waiting here. Most of the people have less obvious problems than Teri. There's a little girl holding her stomach, while a woman pets her hair. Another girl and guy, about college aged, just sort of sitting there.
“I'm really sorry,” I say for easily the hundredth time. “You know this was an accident, right?”
This time, I don't even get a roll of the eyes.
I sink into the chair a bit. I think I could fall asleep pretty easily here. I don't dare to, of course, fully conscious Teri's only going to grow more pissed then. I have visions of her waking me up by jamming her own elbow into my nose, or her foot in my crotch.
I sit back up straight, and decided not to let the candy go to waste. I tear at the bag, but it won't give without a fight. I try different grips, before just yanking on opposite sides of the package as hard as I can.
Half the pieces fly all over, while others tumble out at a more steady pace. I tumble to seal the gap with my hand, catching what I can before it hits the ground. I turn to Teri, a sheepish grin on my face.
She still won't look.