The night I met my love, my J., a few other people were there, including his best friend from high school. I'll call him Justin.
After a night of eating and drinking at the local watering hole, J. was halted in his attempt to leave because he couldn't find his keys. I - already somewhat smitten - volunteered to help scavenge the restaurant, the parking lot, the street. Finally, Justin returned and extracted the keys from his pocket. He had a scheming grin. A scheme, a wingman's attempt at letting his buddy spend more time with a girl he'd just met. Me.
I got to know Justin's ex-fiance - she was there, too, during this time of my life. The two seemed...volatile. Compared to mine and J.'s budding romance (sweet and simple) theirs was a tornado. Their engagement, which had come and gone before I met them, was a perfect example of my favorite cautionary Shakespeare bit:
"These violent delights have violent ends
And in their triumph die, like fire and powder.
Which, as they kiss, consume."
There had been broken glass doors, maybe some bruises on his ex, nothing I knew for sure. Eventually we only saw them separately and then, less often. Justin would show up at my house from time to time, looking for J. Same scheming grin. Then less grin and more scheming. There were rumors of fights, of trouble at parties we missed because we were off getting sober and falling in love...he brought a large rock to my house once and held it between his hands like he might squeeze blood from it. J. would have no more - it didn't feel right - he couldn't just show up at my house and leave menacing rocks on my porch anymore.
Later, we tried again to reach out to Justin. He was sick, he had clear mental health concerns. I was worried about him. He sat on my couch once, utterly silent. He seemed furious and yet insisted nothing was wrong. I felt helpless. Suddenly, he threw his can of chewing tobacco clear across the room as hard as he could. It was the oddest thing. Once, J. made an off-color joke and Justin threw his beer bottle at J.'s head - narrowly missing. We called his parents. I didn't know them, but I plead with them to help him. They knew, they said. There was nothing they could do, they said. A year ago, we learned how Justin fought another young man with a knife, unprovoked, until he could be restrained and carted away by his horrified parents. We hear how he's got a good job, working with his father.
We see Justin from time to time, out and about. Sometimes he does show up at my house. Usually J. calls him first. Two weeks ago, J. and Justin and Justin's father went downtown just to walk around. He doesn't want to let his old best friend go if he can help it, even if the friendship had faded away with his health. J. filmed the excursion, focusing on his friend and his friend's father - both tall and thin, superbly good-looking young men.
This morning, Justin's father shot him several times in the front yard of their home, killing him. The newspaper picked up the story before any of the friends, so many of our friends found out from a harassing news reporter. Sensational, yes. Sickening, yes. I won't be surprised if it's picked up nationally. It's too good to be true for the struggling newspaper. "Beautiful blonde upper middle class family shoots each other in yard."
Last night, J. commented that unspeakably horrible things happen all the time. We cannot predict the future, we can't count on our resolutions and our plans to hold up through the swiftly striking tragedies of life. He was referring to drinking. Hopefully this will not drive him to drink again. Last night, we were talking about the difficulties that people have in getting mental health treatment. I dreamed of an A.A. - like place for people with anxiety, depression. A safe place where people like me could call, could find a list of therapists, doctors, resources. A place to simply speak to others and to know that you weren't the only one to google "need a psychiatrist in __city___".
Now it seems more urgent than ever to me that supposedly "normal" people who are really suffering need mental health care. Maybe this tragedy could have been prevented, but probably not. While the newspaper reporters continue to speculate on homicide v. self-defense - no one knows at this point - we are just mourning, pacing, sitting, looking at the menacing rock still sitting on my porch, like a talisman of warning. Time for me is standing still, I feel close but not so close to the situation. J. is still in shock, I think. He has has too many friends die. The lives of young men seem so dangerous.
