(no subject)
there was a day last july when he appeared on my porch, with a pack of cigarettes, in that soft grey t-shirt. we walked down to the eastbank esplanade, where we could lay down on our stomachs -- hands propping up heads. our legs bobbed up and down at our knee hinges. his toe kicked the side of my foot from time to time as we stared at all the water passing by, as he lamented the loss of his bicycle, and the cruelty of a world that never wanted to hire him. i asked him what he really wanted to be doing, what could make him happy aside from messenging or ticket selling. it looked like he was staring under the water, and completely ignoring all the little waves from the dirt-pushing boat. there was a very high bridge, he told me, that spanned a section of river where he used to go swimming. there was only a thin slice of water deep enough to dive into beneath the bridge. when he was younger he'd seen some kids jump into a river from a bridge like that, and they split their feet open. you have to point your toes if you're going to jump in feet-first. the most amazing thing in the world is diving into a river like that, he told me -- and he'd be happy to be a professional cliff-diver. after a few more minutes staring silently at the brown water, he spoke again, saying that he didn't really think such an occupation really exists. instead, he'd like to be a train engineer, like his father. you could see the whole country from end to end, and have all of your days to think about anything in the world all day long.
i really miss you, casey cravy. i want to hear you knocking on my bedroom window at three in the morning again, or hold your hand under the table at the dunes. i'd like to try to talk you into being a professional cliff-diver/slash/train-engineer, and stop doing all that floating around. i'd like to watch you drive the tiny plastic car around the the block, at the number one record speed, and then we could lay on the couch and listen to Pet Sounds. it's hard to believe that people just end like this. that your body's been burned up and taken back to your family in california. i don't know what i'm supposed to do about it now, but think of you.