He's Gone

Robin reached out to me earlier today. She told me she has no memory of sleeping with Tim that night. She told me she couldn’t even imagine it. And I believe her. Implicitly. Explicitly. Little poisonous ideas worm into my psyche, and they sit there on the same perches, the same branches that truth does. I confuse them. And don’t we always favor the thoughts that cause us the most pain? Don’t we reach for the reeds to flay ourselves with? I certainly do. But Robin reached out, my first love, and I trust her.

              For a while there, when college was new, and everything was wrapped in the glow of “just not being home,” things and thoughts and tastes and reflections were magical. We drank things and swallowed things, and put other things on our tongues. We were FREE. We were free to sink or swim. And maybe I should take more.

It’s hard to write. It’s hard to categorize all of this into a narrative. My hands and fingers fairly pulse and throb above each black key with cobalt blue letters perfectly spaced in the middle. This button makes an E. This one makes an O. So many choices with the dogs wandering around and wanting treats. Swirling into a storm of love and smiles but confused smiles all the same.

And so summer came when school let out, and I was back home. New friends and relationships were now spread across the world. And me, safe in my house with people who loved me. God, I was so loved. My parents never considered if, even for a moment, not loving me. I took it for granted so often, and they never wavered. They just loved me no matter how high I piled the debris onto the bonfire of my life.

I can’t even remember how we knew that the Dead were touring, but somehow we did. How did we know? I’ve wondered about this for years. It’s as if it just popped into our consciousness. And we’d get tickets, or we’d at least make plans to drive to someplace without tickets. We’d just go and see what happened. Nothing has ever felt that wide open with possibilities since. And here they were at Merriwether Post Pavillion. Just a little way down the line.

Andy and Robin, and I made plans to go. They drove from New Jersey to pick me up. I assume they spent the night after the show, but I can’t be sure. Anything could have happened. I remember sitting on the little stoop in front of my house in the bright sunlight waiting for them to roll up. I just sat there. The sun felt good, and I was excited to go to another Dead show. God, they meant everything to me back then. My Dad was home, and my Mom was working. She was a pharmacist and worked at the local hospital. She’d get off at 9 each night but had to be on call once she got home. Someone might need some morphine or an antibiotic, and she’d get the call, and in she’d go. My Dad usually drove her. I think so, at least. It didn’t happen a lot, but it was something that lurked in the shadows.

And so I sat and waited, and then something happened which I’ve carried around like a noose ever since. People talk about regret. We do things we wish we hadn’t, or maybe we regret not trying something. I’ve always felt it’s better to regret something you did rather than something you didn’t. But, I did something while waiting for Andy and Robin that I would give anything to take back.

At some point, I stood up and walked inside. They’d get there soon enough. I just walked into the little space between the front door and the stairs leading up to our bedrooms. My Dad was home. He was likely lying in bed reading. He was always reading. He called down and asked me if they’d arrived yet. He was happy for me. He knew what a big deal a Dead show was. I don’t think he fully understood what sorts of things could happen there, but he knew his son was a bit on the wild side. I think he was secretly proud of it. He certainly was years later when I got a record contract. When he passed away, I found a box of everything ever printed about us. Every interview and every test pressing. He’d kept it all. I never knew.

And then he asked me, in a very halting and almost shy voice, if he could go with us to the show. I was just shocked. I could hear how much he truly wanted me to say yes. Fathers don’t ask their kids those questions without putting an awful lot on the line. He just said, “Can I go with you guys?” I told him we didn’t have an extra ticket. I lied to him. We wound up giving a ticket away to some Deadhead dodging the rain from underneath a Day-Glo bus. But in that moment, I just lied, and he said, “That’s ok, maybe next time.” Fuck. I could hear the disappointment in his voice, and all he cared about was not making me feel bad. I just lied to him out of fear and embarrassment, and God knows what other horrible reasons, and he just tried to make me feel like it was fine. I stood there looking at the floor. I felt paralyzed. I never want to forget that moment and the proof of how horrible I could be. It’s not like he had ever asked such a thing before or since. He asked one time. He took a chance, and I blew it.

I think I’ve only told one person about this. I stuffed it so down deep inside me where all the rotten things lay. One night it just came up, and I told Nery. I think she was shocked at how overwhelmed I was in just trying to get it out. I know she held me and said whatever people say to people they love when these people are self-destructing on the couch right next to them, and the dogs are worried, and everything turns grey and joyless.

Eventually, Andy and Robin got there, and we left shortly after. They met my Dad, and we never spoke of it again. I just floated through the rest of the night. I remember giving the ticket away and how awful I felt about it. What was I so afraid of? Why did I react with such reflexive lying? I know he would have had a blast, and I’d have that memory instead of this awful thing. But I fucked up. For all my talk of wanting to be the outlier and the weird kid given the chance, I just shriveled up.

When my Dad got sick and lay in the hospital for those last two months, or however long it was, I thought so much about this. I just wanted to make it up somehow. He waxed and waned. Some days it seemed like he’d be able to come home, and then other days, he was just out of it. And even then, when he could talk, he was just happy. He kept looking out for us, my Mom and the many friends who would visit. He had so many friends. He was such a truly good guy.

You think of all sorts of things when your Dad is dying in front of you. You can’t wrap your head around it. This just can’t really be happening. I thought of the Dead show and a thousand other times when I wished I’d been kinder to him. Surely someone made a mistake. And then the doctors ask you and your Mom to step into a little room. They sit you down, and you know what’s coming, but nothing can prepare you for it. The doctor was very kind and tried to soften the blow as best he could. But what can one really do? He told us that my Dad just wasn’t going to get any better and that he’d be on life support indefinitely. We had to choose. We had to choose to let him go. Fuck. I’ve never felt anything like that. I remember the room so distinctly, the beige walls and the white Formica tabletop covered in tears and my Mom’s look of panic, and I held her.

We let him go. We allowed them to stop life support and sat next to him for two days until he finally took his last breath. And he was gone, just like that. I just shut down and went into taking care of my mom mode. I couldn’t handle it. It took a long time for me to even begin to face it. And I didn’t dwell on the Dead show memory, but I carried it. I still do. My Dad asked me to be a part of my life for one night, and I said no. I fucking blew it. I’d give anything to have that chance again. I love you, Dad.