A Sad Day
The nightmares have (mostly) faded, but the pain? It's abated a little in terms of frequency but when it comes, it's full force. Even after 13 years it is keen as ever. Such losses have no "use by" date.
Thirteen years ago today my Scooter was murdered, shot thirteen times in the chest. He and his girlfriend Andrea, shot nine times by the same pitiful excuse for a human-shaped carbon unit, were at San Marcos looking into transferring to the university there. Her friend's boyfriend took 2 hits of acid... and the lives of two wonderful people.
My friend, Scott Martin, dead at 21.
A gentler soul you could never want to meet: soft spoken, mellow and kind beyond measure. Though he spoke rarely to people he didn't know, he chatted buffalobills' ear off immediately. Go fig.
He loved REM with a passion I didn't quite understand... but it suited him somehow. Scott's short hair to contrasted Shawn's light brown sunstreaked tresses, but his bangs were a foot long, ending in this endearing curl. His standard posture found him inclining his head ever so slightly to the right, almost coquettishly. We bonded and formed the unofficial Hide-Half-Your-Face-Behind-Hair Club. I was an honorary member, having lopped off my mass of permed curls for a Joan Jett spiky do-I got in based on photo evidence of my previous look. Maybe that's why, upon growing out my locks, any other style gives me pause to this day. It's a fitting tribute.
So many of my Scooter memories intertwine with those of my First Real LoveTM, the aforementioned Shawn (they went to high school together). But they're not really the kind of memories I can share. There's not much narrative, no real anecdotes with neat, clean beginnings, middles or endings. They're more a montage of random snapshots, interspersed with certain scents (patchouli and sandalwood, mostly), textures and, more than anything, songs. It wouldn't make sense to anyone, with the possible exception of buffalobills, outside my own head. When I try to quantify it I find myself mystified. So I try to let it roll and crash over me like waves, like thunder, like cymbals until the feeling stops eclipsing all other experience and my mind scrambles to bring it back... only to chase it further, lost to the inexorable ebb and flow of tides in my mind.
To this day, I can't hear "Shiny Happy People" without thinking of him. The B-52s are one of my favorites (loyal fan since '81) and that song brought together two loves from two divergent people in one musical lovefest. I swear when those first jangly, quirky chords hit my eardrums I feel his arms wrap around me, telling me he's OK, he's one of the people who are both shiny and happy now.
But as I write this, at my office desk, no less, I find myself welling up with tears all over again. Had to pause several times to keep from losing it... that can wait until I get home. My surly betta won't care if my mascara-or my nose-runs.
It's unconscionable to think of such a thing befalling him... or anyone, really. People get sick. Accidents happen, and they are tragic, to be sure. But murder?!?!? No, not in my world.
There's something in me that will never quite mend, knowing that someone snuffed out two lives-that he willfully brought about the demise of someone I love. I can't reconcile myself to that. Moreover, I don't want to.
I remember that dreaded voice mail from our friend Paula, then-wife of Stace (of Skin and Bones fame). We were all neighbors, in this funky 8-unit apartment on Oram. I was living with buffalobills when I got the call, because Paula didn't want us to hear it on the 6pm news. So much of it is a blur. I'm sure I cried with buffalobills. A lot. Shawn and I, long since parted, managed to find each other (like we always did) to share the sad news, though we never got to just hang out and chat over a beer, to play catch up and remember. At some point I went to our spot at White Rock Lake to pour out my heart. A summer storm rolled in as I stood on the pier, shaking my fist at the heavens.
I made promises and bargains with Fate, swearing that I would get it right next time, that I would wait to have a son until Scooter could come back. I would love him unconditionally so he'd never have to drop out of school, deal drugs for a living, clean up his act and get a GED only to have the desperate act of a coward him take him out of the game. I would keep him safe. I'd give him the kind of life he deserves... if only I got to see him again in the flesh, hold him and let him know how much I love him still. I'm sad that I may never have the proper circumstances to make good on my promises. But when I hear that song and feel his arms around me I think he knows I love him still, with all my heart.
The annual onslaught of nightmares has stopped, for the most part. I no longer labor under the illusion that I could have stopped it. The pain still lingers, though I find it comforting these days. It reminds me of what is still true:
I love you, my sweet Scooter.
Thirteen years ago today my Scooter was murdered, shot thirteen times in the chest. He and his girlfriend Andrea, shot nine times by the same pitiful excuse for a human-shaped carbon unit, were at San Marcos looking into transferring to the university there. Her friend's boyfriend took 2 hits of acid... and the lives of two wonderful people.
My friend, Scott Martin, dead at 21.
A gentler soul you could never want to meet: soft spoken, mellow and kind beyond measure. Though he spoke rarely to people he didn't know, he chatted buffalobills' ear off immediately. Go fig.
He loved REM with a passion I didn't quite understand... but it suited him somehow. Scott's short hair to contrasted Shawn's light brown sunstreaked tresses, but his bangs were a foot long, ending in this endearing curl. His standard posture found him inclining his head ever so slightly to the right, almost coquettishly. We bonded and formed the unofficial Hide-Half-Your-Face-Behind-Hair Club. I was an honorary member, having lopped off my mass of permed curls for a Joan Jett spiky do-I got in based on photo evidence of my previous look. Maybe that's why, upon growing out my locks, any other style gives me pause to this day. It's a fitting tribute.
So many of my Scooter memories intertwine with those of my First Real LoveTM, the aforementioned Shawn (they went to high school together). But they're not really the kind of memories I can share. There's not much narrative, no real anecdotes with neat, clean beginnings, middles or endings. They're more a montage of random snapshots, interspersed with certain scents (patchouli and sandalwood, mostly), textures and, more than anything, songs. It wouldn't make sense to anyone, with the possible exception of buffalobills, outside my own head. When I try to quantify it I find myself mystified. So I try to let it roll and crash over me like waves, like thunder, like cymbals until the feeling stops eclipsing all other experience and my mind scrambles to bring it back... only to chase it further, lost to the inexorable ebb and flow of tides in my mind.
To this day, I can't hear "Shiny Happy People" without thinking of him. The B-52s are one of my favorites (loyal fan since '81) and that song brought together two loves from two divergent people in one musical lovefest. I swear when those first jangly, quirky chords hit my eardrums I feel his arms wrap around me, telling me he's OK, he's one of the people who are both shiny and happy now.
But as I write this, at my office desk, no less, I find myself welling up with tears all over again. Had to pause several times to keep from losing it... that can wait until I get home. My surly betta won't care if my mascara-or my nose-runs.
It's unconscionable to think of such a thing befalling him... or anyone, really. People get sick. Accidents happen, and they are tragic, to be sure. But murder?!?!? No, not in my world.
There's something in me that will never quite mend, knowing that someone snuffed out two lives-that he willfully brought about the demise of someone I love. I can't reconcile myself to that. Moreover, I don't want to.
I remember that dreaded voice mail from our friend Paula, then-wife of Stace (of Skin and Bones fame). We were all neighbors, in this funky 8-unit apartment on Oram. I was living with buffalobills when I got the call, because Paula didn't want us to hear it on the 6pm news. So much of it is a blur. I'm sure I cried with buffalobills. A lot. Shawn and I, long since parted, managed to find each other (like we always did) to share the sad news, though we never got to just hang out and chat over a beer, to play catch up and remember. At some point I went to our spot at White Rock Lake to pour out my heart. A summer storm rolled in as I stood on the pier, shaking my fist at the heavens.
I made promises and bargains with Fate, swearing that I would get it right next time, that I would wait to have a son until Scooter could come back. I would love him unconditionally so he'd never have to drop out of school, deal drugs for a living, clean up his act and get a GED only to have the desperate act of a coward him take him out of the game. I would keep him safe. I'd give him the kind of life he deserves... if only I got to see him again in the flesh, hold him and let him know how much I love him still. I'm sad that I may never have the proper circumstances to make good on my promises. But when I hear that song and feel his arms around me I think he knows I love him still, with all my heart.
The annual onslaught of nightmares has stopped, for the most part. I no longer labor under the illusion that I could have stopped it. The pain still lingers, though I find it comforting these days. It reminds me of what is still true:
I love you, my sweet Scooter.