Never in a coffee shop, either. I fucking hate coffee shops. Full of Phish and pretentious people. Besides, all those flavors confuse me. When I want coffee, I want coffee, not double-latte-tall-mocha-swiss-de-caff-frappeed-organic-pesticide-free-Tom-Collins-black with a whammy bar. Fuck all that. We would avoid those places like the plague and just hit the diners, with the other down to earth folks. I want to be waited on by somebody named Floris or Marjorie, not some bitch named Sunbeam.

In any case, in High School, I was also involved with the school newspaper. I was first a writer, then the editor of the features section, then by my senior year I was the Managing Editor (which is kinda like the Vice President). And this was a pretty large school too, large enough that when we ran an ad for a counseling hotline regarding questions of “sexuality”, the Reverend Fred Phelps started picketing us (you have not lived until you see your name on a gigantic sign that reads “*Your Name Here* Will Burn in Hell!!!)

Well, that year—my senior year--two people on the staff of the newspaper particularly stood out. One of them was the editor of the News section, name of Justin Ramirez. He was about 6 foot 6, one of the most popular kids ever, the school president, and had been on the Varsity basketball squad since he was a freshman, which was pretty amazing (fuck you MrSherman, this is a 6A school, some 6 thousand students). He was even being scouted to play for KU. A really great guy, charismatic and personable. And a true go-getter. Nothing could stop this guy. The guy most likely to succeed out of any of us, to be sure. And nobody deserved success more than he.

There was also a writer for our Arts section named Tommy Scott, who was about the sweetest kid you could ever meet. A senior, very kind and flamboyant, and also openly homosexual (which, BTW, did not help our case any with the Phelps crew), and I really respected that about him. The bullshit Machiavellian posturing of high school is bad enough without having to deal with sexual-orientation discrimination at the same time. To see him, you wouldn’t notice how strong he really was, but it was there. Certainly a stronger man than I. He wasn’t in your face about it either, nor was he sexually confused in the least. He knew who he was and that was that as far as he was concerned. I respected that about him immensely. Just a very courageous and charming young man. And despite all the shit he got, I had never once seen him anything but jubilant and full of smiles and charm.

Well, one day, the Editor-in-Chief and I (a good friend named Katie), were going about our business, as was the rest of the room, when some lady nobody had ever seen before (must have been a counselor, heh) came in and asked for everybody’s attention. When she had it, she announced very matter-of-factly that Tommy Scott had died that morning, about two hours earlier. Seems he was pulling out of his drive-way to go to school when a truck smashed into the side of his car, killing him instantly. He was 18.

I remember the next part very vividly. The counselor kept talking, saying something about how counselors would be on call if anybody needed them, something about a memorial service, but nobody was listening at that point. A girl, Tommy’s best friend, immediately began to scream as if a knife had been plunged into her stomach. A few people started sobbing. Must of us just stood there dumbfounded.

A few months later, Justin had gotten news (a few days before his 19th birthday) that he was very likely going to play ball for Kansas University. This was his dream, mind you. Immediately upon hearing the news, he got in his car and headed for Topeka (about 20 minutes away) to tell his family. He wanted to be there in person when he gave them the news.

Halfway home, he picked up speed in his excitement. Took his eyes off the road for a moment or two. Ran off the highway. Totaled his car, and himself. Died a few hours later. The rumors that he was to play for KU were, in fact, true, though not announced officially yet at that point. At his funeral, the entire KU basketball team laid a team jacket on his casket.

About a year later, a good friend of my little sister (who is 19 now) died. Her name was Anna Riphahn. She was 17, and already a published author and artist, who perhaps had gotten more coverage from our high school paper than anybody else. She had won some big contest with a children’s book of a fairy tale that she wrote and illustrated called The Timekeeper. A very beautiful work, I might add. She was one of the most promising young students at the school. One night, her and a few friends were driving home from a concert(somebody like Sting like Billy Joel or something). It was pretty late. Anna had laid down in the backseat and had fallen asleep. Some pickup truck swerved out of its lane and struck their car. Anna was killed, the others were fine.

[Names have not been changed to protect the innocent, because…. well fuck, because they’re dead.]

Well, about an hour after we had heard that Tommy Scott was dead a good while before Justin and Anna were taken, Katie (The editor-in-chief) and myself found ourselves in a nearby Denny’s, smoking over our cups of coffee. We had decided to take the rest of the day off. We were also discussing what the newspaper would say about Tommy’s death. Mostly, though, we were simply reflecting.

Midway through our conversation, a man at the next table leaned over. He was a blue-collar worker, already with a five o’clock shadow despite it being noon. Dirty from his day’s labor, scruffy, wearing old raggedy work clothes. He looked mean and harried.

“Excuse me,” he said as if we were old acquaintances in a bar, “What are you guys talkin’ about? I overheard you sayin’ something about a friend of yours dying?”
“Yes”, we said to him. “A friend of ours died a few hours ago. We just found out.”
The man scratched the hair on his chin for a moment, pondering this.
“How old was he?” he asked.
“18,” we answered.
“That’s a great age,” was his curious reply, and he pondered a moment more. “How did he die, if you don’t mind my askin’?”
“Car accident.”
“Did he suffer?”
“I don’t think so. They said it was instantaneous.”
“Was anybody else hurt or killed in the accident?”
“Ummm, I don’t think so.” He thought for a moment more.
“That’s a great way to die,” he said. We looked at him oddly. He continued.
“There is nothing me or anybody else here in this world could say to make it better. It sucks. That’s all there is to it. It just plain fucking sucks. But I can tell you one thing.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Only the good GET to die young,” was his reply. With that, he tipped his hat, paid his bill, and left solemnly.

I don’t know why I bother mentioning any of this. I know this will all sound sappy and contrived, and I suppose in a way it all is. It is just something I needed to write, something that has been festering in my head for awhile. Nor will I claim these three were close personal friends of mine. They were not. I knew them all, though I can’t claim I was very close with any of them. And I am not going to wax philosophical about the death of children. There is nothing I could say on that subject that has not already been said a thousand times over. It just plain fucking sucks. That is all there is to it.

I used to ponder death and the afterlife and all that shit constantly. I do not anymore. Why? Well, for one, after a certain amount of thought given to it, the ideas start becoming redundant. For another, I honestly just have no clue why people die or what happens to them after the fact. I don’t know, nor do I care to ponder a question to which the answer is unknowable. I respect the people who are sure that you enter nothingness upon your death about as much as I respect those who are sure of a Christian heaven and hell. What both fail to account for, and to respect, is the inherent mystery of the Universe.

And I freely admit I have no clue. Nor do I particularly want to know for that matter.

But I do have a bit of a wish. A request for God, so to speak.

I love to dream. I have such wonderfully vivid narrative dreams, full of a better mixture of fantasy and reality than any artist or author could ever hope to capture. If I could, I would live in my dreams. Just constantly be wandering the wonder and beauty that my subconscious produces for me every night. A place with no rules, no boundaries, where everything is as you paint it. Where anything is possible. Where everything is valid and knowable. Where you are the creator of your own universe.

My idea of a perfect death is a quick one. One in which nobody else is hurt or killed and no suffering occurs.

And my perfect afterlife?

I wish to just be allowed to keep dreaming.

I wish that what happens is that you “fall asleep” forever. Where reality fades into your dream worlds, and you are left there, in your own universe, to your own thoughts and fantasies. The idea that you are thrown into the oblivion of nothingness upon your demise is just unfathomable to me. The realist in me recognizes that that may be the case, but the optimist in me will protest and fight that idea tooth and nail until the day I will know for sure.

I hope that when your brain shuts off your consciousness, that the other parts still run on autopilot for awhile. That you are still allowed the faculties that allow you to dream, to live vicariously through your own fairy tales. Perhaps you eventually fade away into nothingness. That would be okay. So long as you get that time in your own world, which would seem infinite enough to you. That is all I hope for. After you leave this universe, I dream that you are allowed to live in the universe of your own making.

One more ride out before you merge with the infinite.

I think the Universe owes us that much.

I dream that Tommy Scott is still alive, in a world full of painters and poets and where nobody is intolerant, everybody just sees the beauty in others. Nothing more and nothing less. Where he is respected just for being a person of value, just for being a good man. And I dream that he is happy there.

I dream that Justin Ramirez is still alive, in a world where opportunities are endless, where he is on a blacktop, teaching his kids how to play basketball, and going over all the productive things he plans on doing today. Where he is not thinking over past failures, but rather, is asking himself “what can I do NOW”. And I dream that he is happy there.

I dream that Anna Riphahn is flying through her fairy tales, immersed in the universe that springs from her unlimited well of creativity. Where she makes children happy, where she romps with the fairies and the wizards and whatever the hell else she can dream up. Where she can live in the world that she can create. And I dream that she is happy there.

And I dream the same for everybody else who is taken so young.

Mostly though, I just dream of being allowed to keep dreaming.