My Friend Tim
By Richard Hulse
When my wife and I moved into the senior mobile home park at Hollywood
Beach in Oxnard, I met a fellow by the name of Tim.
“Welcome to the park,” he said, as he extended his right hand.
“Name’s Rick,” I replied, as he nearly crushed my fingers with a vise-like grip.
“You lived here long?”
“Bout a month.”
“Oh, so you’re a newcomer, too?” I asked.
“Right.” Tim pointed north up the coast. “Lived in Ventura before I moved
here. You?”
“Simi Valley for twenty-eight years. San Fernando Valley, before that.”
My new neighbor filled me in on other places he lived during his life. “I was
born in La Jolla. Attended UCLA. Served in the Navy in San Diego. Then ended up in Colorado
for thirty years, after I divorced my first wife in 1965.”
“My son lives in Colorado. He’s a fireman paramedic.”
“What part?”
“Aurora.”
Tim bragged, “I lived in Aspen. I was on the ‘ski’ patrol until I retired.”
1
This guy was in his late seventies, short, thin and muscular. Tim’s years of
working on the slopes had kept him in shape. He was also active after he retired by building
things with his hands. A shock of steel gray hair jutted out from his scalp on two sides. His
sarcasm and wit made him an interesting character.
As I got to know him, he was unusually frank sharing his past with me. “I have a
girlfriend by the name of Meg. She was also my girlfriend back when we were teenagers.”
“I’m not sure I follow you.”
He grinned. “I met her when I was in ninth grade. We started getting it on pretty
regularly. My mom got wind of what was happening between us, then sent me to the all-boys
Midland School in Los Olivos, California, thirty minutes north of Santa Barbara. ”
“To keep from getting her pregnant, I suppose?”
“Right, Rick. There’s a funny story connected to how my mom met the owner of the
school before I ended up there.”
“I’m listening.”
“My mother heard about the school from one of her friends whose son attended there.
She goes to visit the place and pulls up in the parking lot where an old man is gardening. She
asks the fellow, ‘Do you know where I can find the person who runs Midland School. A Mr.
Squibb?’ He answers, ‘I do indeed, ma’am. Let me get him for you.’ The guy goes inside the
main entrance as my aunt waits patiently outside. The gardener comes out wearing a coat and tie
and says, ‘I’m Mr. Squib, owner of this school. May I assist you?’”
2
Tim showed me his senior photo in a yearbook. “You were a handsome devil,” I said.
“So how long did you go to this school away from home?”
“I graduated after three years of supposed celibacy. That was during the week, of course.
On Saturdays and Sundays me and my boys enjoyed hitting Santa Barbara, and occasionally,
Montecito.”
He had me. I needed to know more. “And what about being with Meg now?”
“I looked her up when I returned to California. We’ve been seeing one another for
the last two years. Thirty plus years passed, we’re sleeping together again.”
***
***
Not too long after I met Tim he announced, “I just beat cancer. I had an operation last
week to remove the malignant tissue.”
He lifted his t-shirt and turned his back to me. “Lift the bandage up and you can
see for yourself.”
I did as he asked and saw a crusty yellow mess about the size of a dollar pancake.
“Pretty ugly, isn’t it?” Tim laughed. “They said they got all of the bad stuff out.
Can you please take the bandage off? I can’t reach it.”
I tried not to touch the dried ooze in the gauze.
…
3
One day, I met Tim’s girlfriend as he disappeared into his place with arms full of
groceries. “This is Meg, my gal.” he said. “The one I’ve told you so much about.”
I said, “I’m pleased to meet you.”
She pulled me close to her and whispered, “I’m not Tim’s girlfriend. He thinks I
am, but I’m not really.”
Whatever she said didn’t make much sense to me. Meg stayed overnight many
times at Tim’s place, and he stayed every so often at her place in Orange County.
He took her out for many elaborate dinners at the local eateries in Oxnard and
always bought her a bouquet of flowers when she was in town. Tim even showed me his
bedroom and pointed, “My girlfriend likes to sleep on that side of the bed near the window
where she can see the garden.”
Every time I returned home from Tim’s house I shared a new story with my wife,
Debi. She questioned, “Why do you hang out with that guy? He’s a bit on the weird side, don’t
you think?”
My usual response was something like, “I feel sorry for the guy. I don’t think he has
many friends. I’ve never met any of his relatives, if he has any. And his girlfriend claims she’s
not his girlfriend.”
***
Over many glasses of wine at his place, Tim shared his years living in the mountains. He
hung out with Aspen’s rich and those locals who worked two or three jobs to get by. He drank
beer with his fellow ski patrol buddies and sipped champagne with movie stars. Built homes to
4
make money during summers off. Tim got paid as a stuntman skiing down wild slopes in winter
when movie producers came to town. He also claimed, “I was a good friend of eccentric
newsman and novelist, Hunter S. Thompson, who invented ‘Gonzo’ journalism.”
“I’ve heard of the guy,” I said. “What’s ‘Gonzo?”
“It’s a type of writing he developed as a reporter. He used a lot of sarcasm, exaggerated a
lot, and even used cuss words to get the reader’s attention.”
A light went off in my head. “Oh! I remember reading about him in a recent article about
the Hell’s Angels in the Ventura County Star. Thompson wrote a book about the gang in the
early sixties.”
Tim walked over to his refrigerator and pulled out two cans of Coors and handed me one.
“My favorite brand,” I said as I popped the top. “Tell me more about Thompson.”
“I campaigned for him when he ran for sheriff of Pitkin County in 1970. We drank a lot
and challenged one another to anything from climbing the highest mountains in the Rockies to
skiing down the most dangerous slopes in the range. We always brushed close to death
throughout most our friendship. It ended in 2005 when he shot himself.”
“Were you still living in Colorado at the time?”
Tim sighed, “No. I was living in Ventura when word of his death reached me. I flew back
to Colorado to attend his funeral. I wasn’t surprised how he died. He talked of suicide a lot
during the time I knew him.”
“So, I suppose Hunter’s buried in Aspen?”
5
“Sort of. The son-of-a bitch is spread out all over the place. He was cremated, and his
ashes were fired from a cannon during a private ceremony. One of his friends at the time, the
actor Johnny Depp, paid for his funeral.”
Tim pointed to a framed photograph on the wall. “There were other actors there, too.
Here’s Jack Nicholson. Bill Murray. And if you can believe it, those two are U.S. senators John
Kerry and George McGovern. Over two hundred guests in all.”
I took a big swallow of beer. “Sounds to me like old Hunter got around.”
“He did. Was one strange but likable cat.”
When I arrived home, I asked Debi, a very prolific reader, “Have you heard of a novelist
by the name of Hunter Thompson?”
She replied, “No.”
I shared what Tim told me about the guy.
“He doesn’t sound like the type of author I’d read. I’m more into Stuart Woods. Sue
Grafton. Tom Clancy.”
I looked up Hunter Thompson on Wikipedia. “Geez, Debi. There are twenty-two pages
about him. Under ‘Funeral’ it describes his ashes being shot out a cannon and a display of red,
white, blue and green fireworks, all to the tune of Norman Greenbaum’s Spirit in the Sky and
Bob Dylan’s Mr. Tambourine Man.”
Debi laughed. “This Hunter guy sounds weirder than your Colorado ski patrol friend.”
***
6
I learned Tim had been married three times.
His first wife bore him two daughters and a son.
Meg continued to be in the picture, and she seemed more accepting she was his girlfriend
based on her continued regular visits to his place, and he to hers’.
One day out of the blue, Tim brought up a new character from his past. He asked, “You
want to hear about Mr. Squibb?”
“Sure,” I said enthusiastically. “Shoot!”
“That’s classic,” I responded. “That guy must have been a real character?”
“He was, but during the three years I attended Midland, he taught me discipline and was
like a father figure to me more than my own.”
“You’ve never mentioned you father until now, Tim.”
“That’s because I never liked the guy. In fact I hated him. Before he divorced my mother,
he was always trying to make a man out of me. He wanted me to play football and other team
sports and forced me to do things I didn’t want to do, like play golf.”
“Is he still around?” I asked.
“No. He died a long time ago. I rarely talk about him to anyone.”
I changed the subject. “Say, your buddy, Thompson, ever write about you?”
“Certainly. I was a character in several of his novels, but he didn’t use my real name.”
“Did you ever write anything yourself?” I asked.
7
“Sure. Hunter and I were invited one night to watch a German butcher in Aspen dress a
pig.”
“Dress?”
Tim drew his right index finger across his throat. “Slaughter and prepare the whole
animal, including what’s done with the inedible parts. Anyway, Hunter and I go to see the blood
and guts, and he ends up getting drunk halfway through the ordeal and passes out. I took good
mental notes, and I ended up writing a story titled Dressing a Pig.”
“Did you do anything with it?”
“Hunter thought it was worthy of publishing in The New Yorker, so I sent it in.”
“And?”
Tim laughed. “They rejected it, of course. You want to read it?”
Tim gave me his only copy, which I took home and thoroughly enjoyed. Even my wife
found the piece to be well-written, though she commented, “It was a hard for me to imagine
killing a defenseless, squealing pig.”
***
12:00 midnight. My wife and I were asleep in our bedroom. Ring, ring, ring. Ring, ring,
ring. She jumped awake, turned on the light, and answered the phone. “Hello. Yes, this is Debi.
Rick? Here he is. It’s Tim, honey!”
“Hello, what’s up, chief?” I yawned.
8
My friend whispered, “You got to help me. There are people in my house who are trying
to hurt me. They pushed me down and they won’t leave. They’re in the other room.”
“Keep calm, Tim. I’ll be there as fast as I can. I hope you called the police?”
“No. Hurry please!”
There’s was a group of my neighbors in front of Tim’s house when I arrived and a police
car. I asked, “What in the hell is going on?”
The lady who lived across the street tried to reassure me. “It’s okay. The cops are inside
trying to calm him down.”
“Was he attacked?” I asked, my heart beating rapidly. “Where are the people he said
were inside his house?”
“There were no people. It was all in Tim’s head,” confirmed another neighbor. “He was
taking Ambien to sleep, and the pill caused him to hallucinate.”
“Can I see him? Go in his place?” I asked.
A policeman walked Tim out just as a paramedic van, lights flashing, pulled into the
park. The officer explained, “They’re taking him to the hospital to check on his injuries which
seem to be self-inflicted. He’s lost a bit of blood.”
I looked at Tim’s pajama bottoms. There were minor blood stains below the knee. His
right hand was wrapped in a towel.
“How you doing, chief?” I asked, trying to pat my friend on his back.
9
He moved away, shaking. “They’re gone,” he cried. “They tried to hurt me and steal
things from me.”
The next morning I went to see if Tim was back home. He wasn’t. His front door was
unlocked. I entered his house and walked down the hall where I saw a stream of dried blood on
the carpet between his bedroom and bathroom. There was a broken wine glass in the sink. His
cellphone was on the floor between the toilet and shower stall. Everything else in the house
seemed undisturbed. I accepted the fact Ambien was responsible for the late night unexpected
phone call.
When I saw Tim later in the afternoon, I didn’t mention what happened. He seemed
embarrassed, and I decided not to press him on the previous night’s scare.
***
Not too long after Tim told me he beat cancer, he announced, “It’s fucking back?”
“What’s fucking back?” I asked with a blank look.
“The Big C!”
“Cancer? I thought you said they got all of it.”
Tim threw his arms up in dismay. “So they did, but the mother fuckers at the V.A.
misdiagnosed some of my other tests and didn’t tell me about my prostate until yesterday.”
“I know very little about that type of cancer. How bad is it?”
“The doctor said I could live with it for a long time and die from something else.”
10
As with many screw ups with the V.A. in recent years, the diagnosis Tim’s doctor gave
him regarding his prostate cancer was wrong. Two months after he announced his new illness to
me, he calmly stated, “I’m terminal. The doctor said I have less than a year to live.”
I spent more time visiting Tim and helping him with things like taking out the trash,
getting his mail, or gathering herbs from his garden. Occasionally, Debi would make enough
potato salad, or bake an extra batch of cookies, to share with my ailing friend. And a new thing
happened. He started receiving visits from family members. First, his eldest daughter, Alice,
showed up with her daughter and their beagle; then his sister. Millicent, came by to drop off
some lamb chops.
As the number of visits increased, I asked Tim, “Why haven’t your sister and daughter
visited you in the past? I mean I’ve only seen them in your life in recent months?”
“Why do ‘you’ think they’ve all of a sudden taken an interest in me, Rick?”
“You being sick?”
“Bingo! They feel guilty. Although I shouldn’t blame them. Hell, I lived away from my
kids for so long, I should be the one who feels guilty.”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“Thirty years away in Colorado!”
“Didn’t they visit you in Aspen?”
“In the summer time. A couple of times at Christmas.”
“And Millicent?”
11
“My sister’s visiting to make herself look good with the other family members. They’re
always trying to impress one another. And money means a lot to those folks. My wife’s second
husband built that big mall in Thousand Oaks. My youngest daughter owns an over-priced
framing business in Beverly Hills. You should see them in their social circles. They’re real
snobs. They act like their shit don’t stink.”
“I can’t handle being around people like that,” I said. “They make me want to vomit.”
“One other thing, Rick. You wondered why they started coming around all of a sudden
when I got sick?”
“Yes.”
“They know I have a bit of dough stashed away and don’t know who I put down as the
beneficiary in my trust. There’s also this worn out trailer we’re sitting in.”
***
One day in conversation, Millicent announced, “I’m Buddhist. Did Tim tell you?”
I said, “No, he didn’t.”
“It’s one of the reasons Timmy is living here.”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”
Millicent pointed to a map of the mobile home park on the wall. “There’s a lady I chant
with who lives here. When my brother thought of selling his place in Ventura and downsizing,
Ethel suggested he check out this place. She and I are members of the same temple in L.A.”
12
I laughed. “Heck, I know Ethel myself. She’s a realtor and sold Debi and me our home.
Great gal.”
I put my hands together and bowed. “Namaste!”
Millicent smiled, “Rick, that’s Hindu!”
***
***
As Tim’s condition worsened, his muscles atrophied. He spent much of the day in his
pajamas and a robe. Dementia began to set in, and many times I’d sit in a room with him silently
watching his T.V. Other days, he’d chatter away about things he remembered from his
childhood. The number of visits from his Alice and Millicent increased.
Debi made sure there was always something left over from dinner to give to him. One
time he requested she make him a batch of her fried chicken, which lasted him for several days.
On a day when Tim seemed very fragile, he said, “I’m going to kill myself. When the
time comes that I’m shitting in my pants and can’t take a leak in the toilet, I’m going to take my
own life.”
I didn’t know how to respond and sat sipping a glass of claret.
Tim opened a small plastic pill box sitting on an end table next to where he was seated.
“I’ve got this tiny blue capsule to do the job. I got it from Hunter. I’m surprised he didn’t take
one versus blowing his brains out.”
Tim stared at me, as I thought of a response. “Well, Rick?”
13
A bit stunned, I stammered the first thing that came to my head, “How…ah…how are
you…ah…going to…ah… know when the time comes?”
“It’ll be subtle. You may be the only person who knows I’ve done it. You have to
promise you won’t tell anyone. Scout’s honor?”
“Scout’s honor. I promise.”
Walking home, I tried to make sense of Tim taking his own life. When a person dies,
there is usually an autopsy if the cause of death is unknown. In Tim’s case, he had cancer and
one might not be necessary.
I decided to bounce my friend’s announcement off Debi.
“Guess what Tim told me today?”
“Go.”
“He said when he’s unable to take care of himself, he’s going to take his own life.”
“How?”
“With a pill. He showed it to me. I promised not to tell anyone.”
“Rick. You just told me.”
“You’re my wife.”
“Did you try to talk him out of it?”
“No. I’m not sure he’d seriously do it. And if he does, does it really matter? The guy’s
terminal.”
14
“The next thing you’re going to tell me is you crossed your fingers when you promised
not to tell anyone.”
“I did.”
***
15
When I heard a muffled Pht! and a loud cheer, I was standing on Tim’s porch facing his
front door. I opened it and tentatively asked, “Tim, may I come in?”
“You sure as hell may. I shot one of the sons’ of bitches.”
“Bitches?” I asked, as I stared at my friend sitting in his easy chair clutching his Red
Ryder rifle.
“A fucking mouse.” Tim pointed. “Look, he’s squirming in the corner in the kitchen.”
“I didn’t know you had mice. How long’s this been going on?”
As I asked the question, I watched the rodent’s final twitch as it died.
“About a week. First I used traps, but the bastards kept taking the bait and escaping. That
was at night. I’ve decided I have time on my hands during the day, and I’m going to pick ‘em off
one at a time until they’re all gone.”
“Bastards? Maybe you need a better mouse trap,” I laughed.
“Outta the way, Rick!” Tim’s gun fired another round at a kitchen cabinet above the sink.
“Shit. I missed him. He ran behind the blinds.”
I warned, “The more shots you fire at these critters, the more damage you’ll do to your
place.”
“I don’t really give a shit. I’m dying. I may as well have some fun. Whoever inherits this
coach’ll have to fix it up anyway. Perhaps replace it with a new manufactured home.”
Tim looked at me. “You wanna give it a try?”
16
“I’m not a gun guy.”
Tim pointed Red Ryder at me. “You told me you had your dad’s gun.”
“Yeah,” but I’ve only shot at still targets like branches in a tree.”
“I see.” Tim cocked his rifle. “Watch out behind you!”
Pht! I ducked, as a BB whizzed by my left ear. Thump! A mouse’s body bounced off the
wall.
“Ha, ha!” screamed my gun happy friend. “Got the mother fucker.”
When I returned home, I asked Debi, “Do you know where my Red Ryder BB gun is.”
She questioned, “Why do you wish to know?”
I replied, “So I can help Tim blast the shit out of the mice who’ve invaded his place.”
“That’s gross, Rick! I don’t want to hear about it. Your rifle’s under the bed.”
***
During the short time I knew Tim, I only saw him cry once. It was a rainy afternoon, and
Debi had made him a batch of chicken noodle soup. When I delivered it, he was sitting in his
easy chair half asleep. Resting on his lap was a copy of what appeared to be a yearbook with
Aspen 1988 printed on the cover.
I placed the soup beside him on an end table, then nudged his shoulder with my
fingertips. “Tim, wake up. It’s Rick.”
He tried to focus, shook his head, slurred, “She’s dead.”
17
“Who’s dead?” I asked, as he wiped some drool from his lips with his hand.
Tim looked at me, then motioned to the kitchen. “Ah, can you get me a glass of water?”
“Sure, chief. You want the bottled stuff or tap water?”
“Perrier, please. With a slice of lemon and ice. In fact, fire a shot of vodka in it, too.”
As he slurped his cold drink, I asked him again, “Who’s dead?”
“The girl in this picture.” He pointed. “Her name was Ingrid.”
“She’s beautiful,” I replied. “Was she your wife?”
“No. She was a dear friend of mine, who I could have loved, given the chance.”
“Chance?”
“I loved her, but she never showed the same interest in me. I never told her how I felt,
and one night we had a terrible argument about me drinking too much. She tore out on the slopes
on her skis, and I was too drunk to follow her. She ended up dying in an avalanche, a mile from
my cabin.”
Tim’s eyes began to glisten and tears began to drip down his cheeks. “Her father never
forgave me. Blamed me for her death.”
“You said she went off on her own. That’s not your fault,” I said, trying to justify him
staying behind.
“You don’t understand. She was everything to her father. His wife, who he was madly in
love with, died giving birth to Ingrid. Nicholas dedicated his life to raising his daughter the best
he could. He basically died of a broken heart a few months after the accident.”
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“Man, that’s pretty heavy. I’m so sorry you lost her.”
I gave Tim a box of tissues. He continued. “This book was published the year she died.
Every year the locals put one of these together to remember the good times in our tiny
community. I rarely look at it, because of her.”
I faltered a bit. “I…I can’t blame you, Tim. She was gorgeous… and had a great smile.”
***
When a nurse’s aide began visiting Tim’s house to bathe him, and an RN started to drop
by to check his vitals, I knew his time was short.
Visits with his girlfriend became fewer and far between. Tim could no longer drive. They
finally stopped when Meg told me, “Rick, I can’t stand seeing Timmy wither away. And with my
eyes, the drive between here and Orange County is very difficult for me.”
She and Tim continued to keep in touch by phone several times a week.
He placed coffee cans several places in his mobile home so he could urinate without
peeing in his pants, because he could not reach the bathroom on time. By now he was getting
around with a walker. Several times I emptied receptacles of brownish urine in the toilet, then
placed them in their spots within range when Tim needed them.
His relatives were starting to piss me off. They continued to visit, but no one stayed
overnight with him. I thought it strange, but I surmised his family wasn’t normal, when he made
clear, “I don’t care for my youngest daughter, and I rarely see my son. And I don’t really think
my sister gives a damn about me.”
19
His daughter, Alice, and I exchanged phone numbers if we needed to contact one another.
She called me several times when she couldn’t contact her father. Each time I found him asleep,
or he’d misplaced his phone.
***
I grabbed Tim’s mail from the box and walked into his house. He was sitting in his easy
chair in the living room with a smile on his face. “I’m going to throw a dinner party. And you
and Debi are invited,” he announced. “Sort of a last hurrah.”
“What’s that mean?” I asked, shuddering at the thought his end might be near.
He handed me a piece of paper. “I just want to have a great seafood feast for you and
some of the others in the park, including my oldest daughter and my sister. The names of the
guests are written down and so is the menu.”
I read, “Scallops. Sauteed prawns. Steamed buttered asparagus. Caviar!”
“To drink?” I asked.
“Gordon’s gin martinis to start, followed my Moet champagne with the meal.”
“Where you having it and when, Tim?”
“Here, of course. No set date, yet. Alice and Millicent are going to help me put it
together.”
As days passed, arrangements were slow to develop. Every time I saw Tim, he got more
excited. I think the thought of the party was keeping him alive.
20
Several times he peed in front of me. One time he relieved himself in front of me and
Millicent. She seemed to take it naturally and didn’t say a thing.
Close to the day of the last hurrah, Tim announced to me. “We’re going to have to delay
the fish feast. Alice is going to Uruguay with her husband for a family emergency.”
Millicent confirmed this the next day when she came to visit. “She’ll be gone for four
days. Her father in law had a heart attack and her mother in law is in a home. She’s coming by
tomorrow before she heads to LAX to join her husband, who Tim can’t stand.”
In the morning, I went out for a walk. When I returned, I noticed Alice’s car in the
driveway, and Tim’s front door was open. I entered the house and greeted my ill friend, who was
sitting in his easy chair in the living room. “Hi, chief. How you doing?”
Alice called from the kitchen, “I’m putting away groceries, Rick. I’ll be there in a
minute.”
Just as I was about to ask Tim how he was doing a second time, he shouted, “Who are
you?”
I was shocked. A bit afraid. I looked toward the kitchen and warned, “Alice, something’s
wrong with your father. He doesn’t recognize me.”
She rushed beside me, and Tim shouted again, “Who in the hell is this guy?”
“He’s your friend, Daddy! Your neighbor, Rick!”
I cautioned, “I think you’d better call somebody. I think you father’s having some sort of
an episode. He obviously doesn’t know me.”
21
When Tim’s RN arrived, he stared ahead like he was in another world. She took his vitals
and told Alice, “I think your father is going through what is called a transition. I think his life is
nearing an end. I suggest you get a hospital bed and a nurse’s aide to be with him and help you.”
She whimpered, “I can’t.”
“What?” the nurse asked with a surprised look on her face.
With tears in her eyes, Alice cried, “I can’t. I’m leaving this afternoon for Uruguay with
my husband. Maybe my aunt can help.”
After Tim’s daughter calmed down, she arranged for a hospital bed, a nurse’s aide, and
called Millicent. “My aunt will be here as soon as she can. She has to come from Beverly Hills.
I’ll stay until she gets here.”
“I’ll be around for both of you,” I said.
Alice gave me a warm, clinging hug. “Thank you, Rick. You’ve been a great help.”
“Give me a few minutes,” I said. “I’ve got to go home and let my wife know what’s
going on.”
Before I left, the nurse removed a small opened plastic box from the end table next to
where Tim was seated and closed it. She asked Alice, “Are these your father’s pills?”
She nodded her head. “I think so. They were there when I got here this morning.”
Debi tried to comfort me when I told her about Tim’s sudden change in his condition. “If
there’s anything I can do to help, let me know, hon.” She caressed my face with her hands and
gave me a soft kiss on the lips.
22
I grabbed a glass and walked over to the pantry where I kept my booze. I poured a hefty
belt of vodka and gasped as it burned going down.
Back at Tim’s place, Millicent was conferring with her niece and the nurse. A few
minutes after I arrived, Alice kissed her father, then jetted off in her car. A van pulled up with a
hospital bed, and a nurse’s aide arrived to help the RN to move Tim and make him comfortable.
By now my friend was stoic and silent. He looked like death before it came.
I stayed for an hour. When I went to use the bathroom, I was taken back a bit with a
makeshift Buddhist altar Millicent had constructed in Tim’s office, assuming she put it there to
usher her brother to wherever the hell he was going after death. I went home and drank more
than usual. I finally made it to bed just after midnight and fell asleep drunk.
At 6:02a.m just as the sun was rising, my telephone rang. I answered, “Hello.”
“Rick,” sobbed Millicent. “My precious brother, Timmy, has left this earthly life.”
When I entered my friend’s house to pay my last respects, I noticed Tim’s pill box resting
on the kitchen counter. I remembered what he’d said about taking his own life, and I opened it
and snuck a peak. The tiny blue capsule was missing.
I looked at my dead friend propped up in his hospital bed in the living room. His eyes
were open, and he had a hint of a smile on his face.
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