‘Die with your boots on, if you’re gonna die.’
Eddie, an old friend of mine, taught me that.
He was an ex-Marine with three tours under his belt and an explosive personality who practiced what he preached without fear, balls-to-the-wall, until it killed him.
His death was tragic, but it gave me perspective. It led to a new lease on life, for which I’m grateful.
Here’s what happened…
364 days ago I got a phone call from someone named Jim – ‘Yeah, just Jim,’ the voice across the line grumbled and I said ‘Whatever works for you, buddy!’ – and was informed that Bruce Edward Harris had died two days prior in a shooting incident in Phoenix, Arizona. Was I interested in attending the funeral? Yes, of course, I replied, and Just Jim gave me the details and then added in a grave voice that I should wear shoes with laces and that I should tie them strong and secure. My next words should have been, ‘First, how did you get my number?’ but what came out of my mouth was, ‘I don’t know what you’re inhaling but I want some of that dust, pal!’ And Just Jim said ‘Good ties!’ and hung up.
So it goes, as someone said. The fearless, indomitable, larger-than-life Eddie – gone! A shock, but not a surprise. Eddie was the kind of guy who put himself in volatile situations and pissed on the odds, all in the name of a code he lived by in a manner that endangered his life. He didn’t hesitate, and the odds caught up with him that evening in Phoenix. He was crossing a plaza in south Tempe on his way to the grocery store when he spotted a gang of punks outside a tattoo parlor who were terrorizing the passers-by. He went over and told them to up and leave. They told him to fuck off. He told them to drop dead so they attacked him, five on one. He knocked two of them to the ground before the other three got their guns out and shot him seventeen times.
Was it worth it? Getting gunned down like a dog by some crank-wired kids over street rep, principle, and nine square feet of sidewalk? A life has to be worth more than that.
The funeral was in Lincoln, Illinois, Eddie’s hometown. Not easy to get to on short notice, but I needed to go.
The timing was terrible. My girlfriend and I were celebrating our seven-year anniversary that weekend, and we’d arranged a short getaway to a place called Ouroboros Bay near Santa Barbara. We’d been looking forward to the long walks on the beach, the sunset cocktails, the dinner under the stars, the whole treatment, but my new plans had ruined everything.
She demanded to know who Eddie was and how long I’d known him, why I’d never mentioned him before and why I was so stricken by his death, and so on, and I explained as best I could, reminding myself that her bad spirits were justified.
Eddie and I had met in a psychology class in Arizona State University back when I was an undergrad, I said. We were in the same study group. The man was friendly, driven, proficient, and always generous with his time and energy. And a natural leader. And a top-grade student whose organizational skills helped us ace our field assignments – in other words, an asset to the group.
My eyes got watery, and it bothered me. I’d wanted to keep it in.
‘I get it,’ she said, and her face relaxed, although I could have sworn there was something else there. She smiled, and her teeth shone too bright and sparkly for the sentiment they accompanied. ‘You need to pay your respects.’
It sounded genuine, but also sarcastic. I couldn’t be sure. It took me by surprise. I’d expected her to react badly and push for more details, maybe even question my connection to this stranger. I almost wanted her to give me a reason to get offended. It would make me feel good about my decision to go.
Instead, I felt guilty for having misjudged her response, and now owed her, too.
‘Take it easy when you get there,’ she added. ‘It sounds like it’s going to be rough.’
I nodded and kept my thoughts to myself.
*****
It was a day for shorts and sandals. Lincoln shimmered in the blue plain sky and the park next to the church was jammed with people. They rode scooters and bicycles, played volleyball, and enjoyed fat scoops of ice cream in the sun. The cars, mostly pickups, roared down the street with their windows shut, keeping in the A/C.
I was hungover, so I walked all the way from the hotel to get the blood flowing.
Bad decision. I’d had a few too many whiskeys on the flight in, and I was sweating in my suit and tie, swearing never again.
The funeral parlor, a one-story building next to the church, was packed with mourners.
I joined the line, wondering if I’d missed the eulogies. Not that it mattered. I just wanted to pay my respects to the deceased.
The occasion felt strange. Many in the crowd were dressed in everyday attire, like we were at the state fair. At the same time, they were almost too grave, exaggerated in their solemnity, and yet somewhat eager and curious. A sub-murmur floated around. People shuffled their feet, and my nerves couldn’t handle the noise. It was like sandpaper on wood, on and on.
There was also a persistent cough going round the room, jumping from one person to another.
And people kept scratching their heads, their beards, their dresses and elbows.
To drown out the racket and pass the time, I played a game: guess where everyone was from.
Some whereabouts were easy to guess. The Kentucky State trooper, for example, who stood somber and militaristic in his gray-black uniform, his badge giving him away. And the guy in front of him who wore a Russian Hill T-shirt, his hair tied in a man-bun, a man-purse with a 49ers logo in his hands.
In front of Man-bun stood a couple of women in Jamaican-flag-themed pants and dreadlocks, clicking their tongues.
And in front of them, a couple of men in Scottish kilts.
Other folks were harder to place. The young woman in the charcoal-gray cotton dress, for example. Most probably from Washington. She lived two hours outside Tacoma, and would, no doubt, take off immediately after the funeral on her way to a big city on the East Coast, where she was planning to move within the year.
Behind me, a vigorous grandpa. Starched black shirt, pressed blue jeans. Arizona, by the looks of it. Flagstaff or Page. He had relatives in Wyoming but hadn’t seen them in ages. This was his first trip north in twenty years. If you wanted to see him you had to visit him at his ranch.
There was also the elderly couple in matching print designs who held hands. Florida, for sure.
And then the man with the tattoos on his face and knuckles: a proud native of Prison.
I scanned the crowd, giving everyone a story and background, not forgetting where we were. I was mindful of the grief and consternation. We were here to pay our final respects, driven by an air of intimacy and decorum that, upon closer look, cast everyone in a noble light, and which rendered them kindred spirits; a tribe assembled to mourn the passing of one of their own.
The spookiness had finally given way to intimacy.
I was still drunk. My head swam, kicking up froth to stay afloat.
One thing was certain: no one was accepting condolences.
Either none of Eddie’s blood relations had shown up. Or they hadn’t identified themselves.
My phone buzzed.
What did she want now? Probably to check up on me again, although part of me couldn’t help recoiling. Something bad must have happened for her to call me at that moment.
I fumbled with the phone and somehow, my hands shaking, ended up rejecting the call.
I called back.
She didn’t pick up.
Then a text came in…
Sry.. called u by accident. Hpe evrthing’s ok.
I thought about replying to her text. Then decided against it.
I glanced around the room. A thick murmur had filled the hall. Everyone was chatting all of a sudden, which I found inappropriate. It made me uncomfortable, but at the same time I felt awkward for not engaging. My stomach tightened with anxiety, but the bind snapped when the grandpa from Arizona tapped me on the shoulder and asked how I knew Eddie. The couple from Florida leaned in with interest, and I thought, Fuck it.
‘When the silence comes crashing down, it’s no use tiptoeing over the shards,’ I said.
Grandpa stared at me, a blink away from giving me the shoulder, so I shook my head – ‘Never mind, insider joke!’ – and explained that Eddie and I had met at Arizona State University, and that he was a lively fellow whose spirit animated those around him. He had a way not just with schoolwork, but with life in general. A code of living and a way to make things better. When I broke up with my girlfriend at the time, for example, it was Eddie who’d helped me through it. I’d been a wreck, stuck in bed, beating myself up and not eating, but there he was, pep-talk ready, offering me perspective, and a week later I was back in the game, as good as new.
The grandpa from Arizona grinned and then described how he met Eddie in turn. I don’t remember what he said. Something about running an outfit together, or whatever. The point was, he loved the man like a brother, I remember that.
The candles flickered. The hall felt smaller and the line moved slowly.
I stretched my limbs to keep the blood flowing. My eyelids got heavy and my back hurt. The room smelled of cologne, perfume and wax, scented oil and bad breath. Drafts of halitosis with a splash of mouthwash and digested breakfast. The walls, pasty and cream-white, trembled in the candlelight, inching their way closer with every breath. I felt sick but managed to keep it all down by oscillating from side to side, thinking about the pebble beach on Ouroboros Bay, its pine forests and citrus groves and fig tree thickets. I closed my eyes and found myself at the beach, walking by the water. The waves broke hard on the sand, the froth receding with a crackle. A breeze full of salt, pine resin and flowers lifted my spirits. A whiff of orange blossoms and mint. Above, a flight of swallows zipped left and right in the low sun. They disappeared round a cove. I went after them and found myself on a stretch of beach covered in blood-red roses and white roses and tiny cream blossoms. They were laid out in wicker baskets along the water. Hundreds of them. I walked among them, breathing in their scent. At the other end of the cove, by a clump of rocks, someone swam. I made my way over, calling out to that person, but he or she rose up from the froth and disappeared in the citrus trees. I called out again but all I heard was the chirping of the swallows. They settled on the wicker baskets to clean their wings and rattle their heads, staring out at sea. I sat among them, watching the sun slide down the blue dome. I didn’t want the day to be over. If only the sun reversed its course, I thought to myself, wishing for more daylight, and stretched my arms. And pointed at the sky and yelled. The birds exploded in flight and made for the sea, disappearing in the horizon. Their song faded, replaced by the crash of the waves. The orb grew yellow and hot, hot and bright, on its way up the sky once more, and the shadows receded. The day grew again. The flowers in the baskets shrunk and closed their petals, but their scent lingered, fresh and vibrant, and I thought to myself: this is insane… everything is moving backwards. The froth on the beach is coalescing to thick chunks of water that are getting sucked back out to sea, wave after wave rolling away from the sand, toward the horizon…
Someone nudged me, and I opened my eyes.
The funeral parlor buzzed with energy. The venue echoed with chatter, the air rich with the scent of blooms in wicker baskets, the walls no longer swaying.
I told myself to stay with the scene and not go wandering off inside my head.
The state trooper caught my attention. He coughed, probably out of courtesy to those in front, and took a half step forward, then another. He stood straight as a pillar, coughed again, took a few more measured steps forward, along with everyone else. We inched our way to the jet-black casket where the Jamaicas stood gazing at the deceased in silence.
I checked my phone. Still no callback from my girlfriend. Good, but also annoying. Why had she called to begin with?
Then I remembered her text and realized it didn’t matter.
I thought about her text. It seemed disingenuous. She’d probably wanted to talk to me, then changed her mind. Maybe got mad that I rejected the call. Maybe got mad at herself, realizing she shouldn’t have called in the first place. She knew I was at the service. Or did she get the time zones mixed up?
I know one thing. Whenever something pops into her head, she just has to share it with me.
We’re so different in this regard. She can’t control herself, and it drives me mad.
Not only that, sometimes she hits back, saying I’m hard to talk to and that I need to work on myself. One of her favorite bones to pick is my so-called impulse control and overall attitude. I go out with the guys too much, she says, and I’m too emotional about my rationality – ha! – and I should cool it on the issue of how cool a person should be. Be less aloof, she says, so that I may become more approachable and easier to deal with.
Which is code for me to grant her total access at all times i.e. be reachable at all times i.e. erase all boundaries and say goodbye to my peace of mind.
Not happening.
Sometimes I wonder why I’m with her, but the truth is—
The truth is—
The Jamaicas were gone by now, and Man-bun stepped up to the casket. Arizona said something and the Floridas laughed. Someone sneezed. The fragrance of the blossoms got even more intense.
Man-bun shook his head, taking his sweet time. He looked shaken and a little too self-conscious, like he was fishing for attention. Look at me, how distraught I am.
Jeez!
Finally, he stepped away and the line inched forward.
It was the state trooper’s turn.
He patted down his jacket and cracked two knuckles, the sharp sound cutting through the chatter, and marched forward, hat under his arm.
‘Nice boots!’ he drawled as he leaned in to take a better look. Something emanated from his body – a warm, dark, invisible force that I took to be his emotional gravity. He recited something I couldn’t make out, cracked a couple more joints, nodded at the deceased and stood straight, at attention, fists clenched, knuckles white, before walking away.
My turn.
I took a step forward, but I felt someone pull my foot, and my heart went rat-tat-tat-tat in my chest as I stumbled and windmilled my way forward.
Somehow I managed to stay on my feet, and my fright gave way to relief.
The grandpa from Arizona grabbed my hand and apologized. I looked down at my shoes. He had stepped on my undone laces. ‘Coulda broken your neck!’ he said. He was grinning, his face marbled with frustration. His hands cold, he squeezed a little too tight.
‘Water under the bridge,’ I said, and turned before he had a chance to respond.
I approached the casket.
The sight was morbid but also tranquil. My old friend, Eddie, lay on his back, at peace. I was relieved to see his face and limbs intact. He wore a navy-blue suit with a red flurry on the side pocket. A thin black tie lined a sparkling-white shirt. His face was shaved, his jaw firm and authoritative, carved with a thin smile, his short black hair lined with silver streaks that matched the casket’s fabric lining. His hands were clasped on his chest. On his middle finger sat his Corps ring, solid as a kettle bell. It had served him loyally as a stun gun in close combat and as a chick magnet everywhere else. His belt buckle was an exact replica of the ring. (Stylish dissonance, he called it. His go-to look.) The pants were pressed stiff around the creases, at the bottom of which shone Eddie’s boots, ceremonial but seasoned.
I ran my fingers across the boots. Cold and slick and full of trench life force. Underneath the gloss rumbled Eddie’s tenacity, the lockjaw of gritted teeth that gave no quarters.
Indeed, ever true to his word, my friend had fought his way through the years – a small yet important consolation that gave purpose to his untimely end.
One thing: it struck me that he wasn’t in his uniform.
A bizarre sartorial choice.
Maybe Just Jim knew what was behind it, though I hadn’t met the guy in person (who was he anyway?) and wasn’t planning to. I didn’t need another complication in my day.
It was time to go.
I waved a last goodbye at my late friend and turned to leave when – there’s no easy way to put it – everything I assumed about the world was thrown sideways. Down the rabbit hole and through the grinder. Like I said, there’s no easy way to put it. I waved goodbye and just as I was turning round, Eddie opened his eyes, lifted his head, looked at me with a puzzled expression and said: ‘Why the long face? Someone die?’
My limbs froze. My mind went blank, and the few words that bubbled up from my subconscious got stuck in my throat.
Eddie grinned his trademark grin, grabbed my arm, pulled me in close and purred in his gravelly voice, ‘Remember to tie your laces tight, son. It’s more important than painting your boots slick. Or wearing the right color shoes. There’ll be plenty of time for that later.’
I tried to pull back and free myself, but his grip was strong.
‘Good ties,’ he said, his breath cold and dry in my ear, his vice getting tighter. ‘Everything starts there.’
He winked, clicked his tongue, let go of my arm, and froze stiff.
I remember it like it was just a moment ago – the timbre of his voice, the glint in his eye. The way he exhaled the energy from his body as he laid himself to rest.
The funeral hall was calm. The patter of shoes and the odd mumble. My thoughts came crashing down in a heap and I was certain everyone had seen and heard everything. But no one flinched. If they had indeed noticed something, they weren’t showing it. I searched for clues, something in people’s eyes to assure me they’d seen what I’d seen. Nothing! Just a crowd of somber faces. The space tingled with the frustration of the aggrieved, every sound reinforced and imbued with meaning. I thought I heard someone whisper, ‘It’s okay’, and something felt right. It went beyond words. We were in the grip of a spiritual symphony for which I had no name.
The best way to put it was that Eddie’s presence was blowing through us, making the congregation flutter like leaves. We were experiencing grief in line with our needs, to each our own, but together.
I walked away, watching Arizona step up to the casket. Washington, a few feet behind, stood gazing at her shoes with a calm expression on her face. Everyone was lost in thought, including the state trooper and Man-bun. They were standing by the door, staring a thousand yards ahead.
And the guy from prison had a grin on his face.
I turned to Arizona. His fingers had locked around the casket rim. He was peering in, his dry, thin lips moving. I couldn’t hear what he said.
I marched out of the building, through the park, down the busy street. I slowed down only after I reached my hotel.
*****
Everything came together over the following twelve months. Eddie’s passing was the catalyst that threw my life into sharp relief.
First, I realized that my old friend hadn’t died for pride and a piece of sidewalk. On the contrary, he’d lived and breathed and fought for them. A stroke of bad luck had taken him out too soon, but who the hell knows when’s too soon or too late? We go when we go. Eddie went out doing what he thought was right, standing up for values like safe streets and the ability to go about one’s business without getting harassed. A simple yet profound code. His commitment to any given cause made it matter, and it threw the switch in my head, putting everything in perspective.
What was I doing with my life? How did I contribute to the world? I drank, got mad with trigger-ease, and was way too cynical and easy to disappoint. I was late for meetings and critical of those who were late for no reason, whereas I always had a valid excuse – I, God’s gift to humanity.
I had a choice: go about my business as usual, making no difference as usual, pretending I had it all figured out. Or stand up for something other than myself and become a positive force in the world for a change.
I was grateful to Eddie for shaking me out of my slumber. His words from the grave’s edge reminded me of the value in getting things done and making life matter. How to worry about substance, not appearances, and take plenty of chances. Not fret, just do, and the let the sparkle follow.
And if things didn’t work out, there was a lesson to be learned. Take a moment to process, assess and regroup. Do better, fail better, again and again, until the result comes.
‘It’s all about embracing death, Victor,’ he’d once told me. We were in Timberwolf, a bar next to Arizona State University, having bourbon and beer backs after a demanding class assignment. ‘The key to life,’ he grinned, ‘is the prospect of losing it. And the secret,’ he winked, ‘is to enjoy whatever we do. We’ve got to be present to make a difference, and to be present and make a difference we must embrace the void.’
It sounded cool, but I wasn’t in the mood.
He saw right through me and shook his head. ‘You’re afraid to check out, man,’ he said, pointing a finger at me. ‘What are you waiting for?’ His voice had the pitch of a man who’d had enough.
After the funeral, I finally got it. Eddie had been talking about taking risks and seizing the moment. About dropping what didn’t work, no reservations or second thoughts. Move on, make things happen. Fall, get busted, pick yourself up and keep going, again and again.
I wanted to share the insight with my girlfriend. (How had I missed it all this time?) It would change everything. No doubt she’d be moved by it, same as I, and we could go on this exciting journey of self-discovery together, putting our newfound wisdom to use.
Only we didn’t. She wasn’t buying it. (Karma is an evil thing.) Unimpressed, she pointed out that I was contradicting myself. According to my accounts, she said, Eddie had told me to tie my shoelaces before setting out to do something. Yet here I was, talking about doing things without a plan.
‘Without worrying about every damn detail,’ I corrected her. ‘I don’t want to fuss anymore. I want to get things done.’
‘Getting stuff done is one thing,’ she said. ‘Getting unhinged is another.’
The comment was rough and out of line. I should have confronted her about it – asked her why she chose to remain in a relationship with a so-called unhinged person, and why she was dealing with it so off-handedly.
If she truly thinks I’m out of my mind, I thought to myself, she should be pushing me to get help instead of lording it over me.
But I didn’t want to get sidetracked.
‘It’s about a new start,’ I said.
‘I won’t even comment on your hallucinating at the church,’ she went on, ignoring my last words. ‘Let’s call it an overactive imagination. Or a side-effect of grief. Or alcohol. Wild thought, I know. But this… this is borderline ridiculous.’
I told her that I regretted having shared my experience at the funeral with her. If she was going to shit all over it, why did I even bother?
‘When facts are inconvenient, we call them “shitting all over” things.’
‘This isn’t helpful,’ I said. ‘I’m trying to tell you something. I want to build something new. And to build something new,’ I repeated, getting my thoughts in order, ‘we must tear down what’s old. We can’t start fresh if we don’t leave behind what keeps us captive. I don’t want to end up living a life that amounts to nothing more than habits, you know, all those little things we do to avoid making the real changes.’
‘Can you hear yourself? You sound like a zealot.’
Unhinged, and a zealot.
‘Is that all you have to say to me? That I’m out of my mind?’
‘Pretty much, yeah. From where I’m standing.’
‘Maybe you should shift positions and clear your perspective.’
‘Right. March to the beat of your drum. Bottom’s up the Kool-Aid, Reverend Jim!’
‘Take a break, Nurse Ratched!’
So much for a healthy and mature relationship.
Which raised the question: Why was I still in it? Why didn’t I just walk away?
And the answer was, I loved her and wanted to be with her. She was the first person I’d felt a true connection to. I can’t explain it. There was something tangible that bound us, like an invisible thread, a force field with its own history. Her amber eyes were full of intensity, an almost animal energy. We’d come together in the glow of that pull, determined to make a life together. Yes, we drove one another mad too often for comfort, but mature relationships come with friction and trials. One has to endure the tension, the challenges, everything life throws at us. Otherwise, what’s the point?
Then again—
Excerpt from the short story TIMBERWOLF
