Last night, yesterday, 14 years ago
Last night I had a really odd dream. I was back home in Ravenswood, in the EST. I was obviously visiting, as people seem surprised to see me. Somehow I started walking around, going up Walnut St, heading out of town. As I walked, it seemed like a huge crowd of people were running towards the same area, in order to catch a parade of sorts. The parade consisted mostly of people who I then could identify as being in bands of some sort, that I obviously enjoyed. I was in ecstasy until I saw my friend Steve
.
To break from the dream, some background is in order. I doubt anyone who knew me pre-college will ever read this, except maybe Kate (brothers don’t count), so saying “Steve” probably wouldn’t register for most. At the age of 10, my family moved from our home on Providence RD, in the boonies of Jackson County to the up-and-coming bustling metropolis of
Ravenswood. Needless to say, the place was awesome for a kid like me, as I had grown up my whole life with nary a boy my own age in walking distance, and for the most part, fairly friendless, with the exception of a few (damn, I should look up Derek Reese, we played together when I was in 3rd grade. He was messier than me). Steve was the first kid I met after the move. Well, maybe not the first, but the first that mattered. I have known him for nearly 14 years. I can say that because we moved right after my 10th birthday and I’m closing in on 24 now.
The way I remember Steve, and the way I’ll always remember him is on the first day of 5th grade in Mrs. Mullins’ class at Eastwood Elementary School. (I just realized that it was called Eastwood because it was
East of Ravens
wood by a whole 2 miles. wow.) We were going to do individual pictures for some blasted bulletin board or something, who knows what. All I know is that Steve refused to get his picture taken, because his hair didn’t look right. He
dug Elvis, in a way that I didn’t think a 10 or 11 year old (he’s about a year older than me) could dig
anything besides possibly dirt, worms, or pulling girls’ pigtails. (Or maybe I’m thinking too young. I’ve always been immature.) The point is, that moment, that weird decry that he would get his picture taken the
next day, when his hair looked good is the first, the most important, and the defining memory that I have of Steve.
Steve and I grew up, grew close, grew apart, grew close, and grew apart. Rather than share all the sordid details here (I’ll save that for later, maybe a book project: Me & Steve… brothers from different mothers…
and fathers). The point is that we shared (share? I don’t know) a bond that I’ll wager to say has been incredibly hard to replicate and is probably the reason why I have very few acquaintances and close friends, but those friends I have are forever. Steve hit a rough patch in high school (he may still be in it, last time I saw him he wasn’t) and dropped out eventually, during our senior year. He left the ‘wood shortly after I moved away to college, and I’d like to think that it wasn’t a coincidence.
Going back to my dream, when I saw Steve, he was morbidly sad. He said that it was time, and that he was leaving. I immediately joined his dour mood, and pleaded with him to stay. But he said he needed to go, and walked away. After this, the dream becomes just normal weird dream stuff with displaced faces, names, and events. But Steve’s part sticks with me. It’s stuck with me over 12 hours, and has at the least inspired me to write a fair amount.
But why?
I know why. I feel guilty. It’s all my damned fault. In the times that we weren’t close, at the end of middle school and the beginning of high, is when things went downhill for him. Had I been there, I could have stopped the 2 pack a day smoking habit. The excessive pot. The eventual alchol abuse. Dammit. His father was an alcoholic, he fucking knew better. We used to talk about it, even after the downtime in our friendship, when the Flipmode squad was in full effect. He never wanted to drink, so he wouldn’t be like
him.
…I started ranting. Ignore that. The point is that I haven’t talked to Steve in a long time. A real
long time. Why would my subconscious be thinking of him? I think I know.
Remember the
bond I talked about? Part of that was our shared dream and desire to get out of Ravenswood. We wanted to be in punk bands and live in the city, go out and be awesome all day long. We wanted to be adults, but be kids at the same time. For most, this dream dies during their teenage years, but not us. I’d say that up until, and including the day I left for college we still talked about it. And even later when I saw him, it was pretty much the same. I think it’s just that lately, I’ve realized that I’m living the dream.
No, I’m not in a band. I can’t skateboard (but I do ride a mean bike though). But I am awesome,
all day long, I’m doing what I want to do, on my own terms, I have a beard, and I’m living in a great city. I’m happy, to say the least. Yeah, I’m broke all the time, but that’s what your twenties are for, right? I’ve stuck to my weird set of ideals that I’ve had since I was a kid, and it’s turned out pretty okay. I’ve got a lot of people to thank for that, pretty much anyone I know (especially the Sixman crew), but that’s not the point. Again, the point is that I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t had someone to share that dream with when I was a kid. I had a rock, an awesome rock that ended up with an amazing (in retrospect) goatee, and the sweetest dung beetle ever tattooed on his arm. Without support at such a young age, who knows what I’d be doing now?
I just wonder what he’s up to. I hope he’s happy, and I hope I can find him someday and thank him in the right way. Hopefully on a Wednesday. I miss Wednesdays.
justinª