My friend died today. This particularly sucked because I was at work when the ambulance was dispatched to his apartment. At least I didn't answer the damned 911 call.
The person in question is Chris, the fella Scott and I used to work with at Elmview, AKA "Turbo" due to his penchant for hitting the top speeds in his power wheelchair. Chris was a cool guy, even if totally oversexed and wound up on the subject of Dodge vans, which he worshipped. He had one hell of an attitude, which is the only reason he was alive up until this morning. He had a go-round with heart problems with six years ago; he wasn't supposed to live, but instead he stumped the doctors and thrived.
When someone dies it's like your brain suddenly shuffles all your memories of them into an album. There we are, working on his garden: he's telling me how to rearrange the pansies and marigolds while I sweat in the heat. We're roaming the county in his long grey Elmview van. I have pictures of Chris eating oatmeal, getting weighed on the KVCH ramp, working the Safeway aisles with his grocery list in the pocket beside him. I liked hanging out with him.
Last night he went to the car races and had a blast. Then he had a massive heart attack and died in his sleep.
I'm sad as hell that he's gone from my little world, but now he's free. I hope he's on his way to a heaven full of Dodge vans, sleazy chicks and cold beer he doesn't have to drink with a straw.