Three Years, Eleven Days

That's how long you've been gone now, old friend. In that time Jen and I have moved to a new city, I've become a dog owner and the country has elected not just a new president but an entirely new type of president (America's first modern strongman is about the most diplomatic way I can think to put it). I imagine what you would say about all of this. I keep you with me as I write this, as I try to recount and recapture so many of the times that mattered most in making us. Your epilogue has become the prologue for readers here, and in such a manner your story continues. Maybe not directly, but as a root cause and driving force, as catalyst, in my current exploration. And so I've decided to share the hardest thing I've written thus far - in doing so, making our shared history opensource. I like to think you would appreciate that.

Remembering Steve

In the movie “Almost Famous,” the actor Phillip Seymour Hoffman, who also left the world too soon, in character as Lester Bangs tells us, “the only true currency in this bankrupt world is what you share with someone else when you're uncool.” If that’s true, than Steven and I were like the Bill Gates and Warren Buffet of our childhood world. We were epically uncool. And this is before being uncool became cool, before it was ok to have a 20-sided die in your pocket at all times, or collect comics, or sit up in your room late into the night playing computer games like Zork and Loderunner or committing cheesy horror and sci-fi movies to memory, or writing and publishing zines. Back when we did these things they were not cool. They were more like a recipe for being insulted, getting a wedgie and sometimes having your lunch money pounded out of you. But even as introverts and outsiders, the one spot of redemption was that we had each other to share and endure the ordeal with.

We went to Bluebell day camp together where we both dreaded any sort of athleticism. When it came to baseball, I was the chubby kid, slow, an easy out at first. And Steve, he was the strikeout king – possessed, quite possibly, of the worst eye-hand coordination of any adolescent I’ve ever known. But one day, when all the outfielders had come in close, I remember hearing the crack of his bat, finally connecting with the ball as he drilled it way out over center field. Home run material, a triple at least. Once it sunk in, Steve dropped his bat, looked at all the stunned faces on both teams… and promptly ran the wrong way, from home plate to third base. And that right there is as perfect a snapshot of our childhood together as I can think of.

Without Steve, almost half of my own childhood vanishes. We came of age together, had dual residency in each other’s households, we would talk on the phone or push through the thin strip of woods that separated our developments to stay at each other’s houses, sharing our hopes and writings, our fears and visions of the future, of what we would become. And now we have, I became a small business owner, married, living in Chicago, and Steve found his confidence and the realization of his passions in family, as a devoted father and husband. Every time we spoke, he would talk to me about Benjamin or Rafi’s latest artworks or antics, about Benay’s love and support. He grew from an awkward and shy kid into a profoundly thoughtful and sensitive family man in a world that frankly seems to place too little value on such things. Whenever I was down, defeated, whenever I fell short of my often delusional grand plans and designs, he was the guy that reminded me, sometimes being a truly good person is a far more meaningful and important aspiration than being a great one.

We went from being childhood best friends to being that person for each other that you call in the middle of the night when you need to talk to someone who doesn’t just know you, but who knows every iteration of you that you’ve ever been. The inside jokes, the day camp memories, first relationships and breakups, bar mitzvahs and weddings, high school and college graduations, the words of encouragement to keep writing, keep being creative, and the visits we made across cities to see each other over the years. All of these moments somehow both remain and depart with him. One side of our late night conversations fallen silent.

It seems right to close with another quote from a movie. It’s from “Stand by Me,” which I remember watching with Steve for the first time from the beige couch in his parent’s family room. “I never had any friends later on like the ones I had when I was twelve. Jesus, does anyone?”