Charles killed himself this morning. He was two years younger than me, so he would've been 31 or 32 this year.
I knew Charles when he was very young. His father owned land on the Ohio River near what was Rubaiyat Boat Harbor, the business owned by my grandfather, father and two uncles. Charles and I went to high school together, but we became friends when we worked together for three summers on the river. I was older and undoubtedly a pain in the ass to deal with; he was young and not very used to hard work. We had our share of disagreements, but Charles was so likeable that I couldn't stay angry at him for very long.
We went our separate ways when I graduated in 1989. He finished school in 1991 and went to college; I joined the Navy and was out of town for three years. I saw him again during my first semester of college in 1993. He was doing something in Computer Science and told me that I needed to learn Unix ASAP because, as he put it, it was cool as hell. I didn't know what Unix was.
We lost touch again for several years. I saw him again in 1996 at my grandfather's funeral. We didn't discuss careers (which is a good thing---I was flat broke and driving a delivery truck in Dallas), but instead I listened while he told me everything he remembered about my grandfather. I remember thinking that was how visitations should be, full of pleasant and funny memories.
I never saw Charles again. There were the second-hand stories about this or that, but nothing of consequence. I did not know until today that he had been married for a while, but divorced. By coincidence, the first person to supposedly hear the gunshot this morning was a next door neighbor who both Charles and I had known in high school. I don't envy him what he saw.
It seems almost trite now, but I thought of Charles last week for the first time in a long time. I heard a song on the radio and it made me think of those humid summer days on that steel barge and how the waves would make it hit the metal pilings with a dull thud, a motion that ended up feeling like a jolt instead of a rock. And there Chuck would be (I don't think he liked being called Chuck), telling me about a plan for something or other while he carved what he thought was a peace symbol into the seat of our only stool only it was short a leg so it came out looking like a Mercedes hood ornament, which seemd ironic. And we would laugh.
Oh man.
Posted by Matthew at February 10, 2005 09:09 PM