Michael died so long ago, I can’t remember much about him. Maybe his face. His goofy walk. The way he’d light a cigarette–though, to be fair, that’s only because I have a photo of him in action.
The only thing that’s still vivid in my memory is Michael’s laugh: a short, booming “HA!” that was as funny as any joke. We’d be working, and I’d make a wisecrack, and I’d look up at him, and he’d have this poker face, and I’d say to myself, “I guess I’m not the comedian I thought I was.” Then his mouth would open up a bit, and his lips would broaden into a smile, and his big, brown eyes would sparkle, and “HA!” Then he’d usually turn and go about his business, shaking his head. I don’t know if he was seriously amused or if he was just humoring me.
It’s not the same with other people who’ve died. My grandmother, for example: I remember lots about her. Her dry sense of humor, her many tones of voice, the way she’d kneel and put an arm around my waist as she taught me to cast from a rod and reel. But I knew her so long and she died so slowly, I guess I had a while to build up a repository of memories. Michael died suddenly, with no warning at all, after I’d known him only a few years.
Today, I learned that another friend has died, suddenly.
Jason and I worked together years ago, in the kitchen at Lucky Cheng’s. As the only two even-keeled folks in a room full of hot-tempered nutcases, we tended to stick together. That was fine by me: he was a total hottie and unofficial posterboy of the bi-curious 9th Ward boys. He also had the ultra-hip thing going on, co-starring in the locally produced cult classic, Squishy Does Porno. Yowsa.
As you can imagine, working in a French Quarter kitchen among drag queen waitresses was kinda wild at times, and both of us had our moments (if you know what I mean), but as the years went by, we each settled down. Jason stayed in the service industry and landed a job managing one of my favorite restaurants in New Orleans. I saw him there just a couple of months ago, when Jonno took me out for my birthday dinner. Jason immediately ambled over and hugged us, just as he always did. The place was packed, but his tone was warm and calm. He kissed me on the cheek and wished me a happy birthday, then went about the business of making other people happy.
Jason died last Sunday. I’m told it was a drug overdose, but that sounds strange to me. Jason and I and most of our crowd have been living the straight and narrow for some time now–well, as straight and narrow as things can be here. Not that I doubt my source, but I have to wonder: was it an accident? Could it have been intentional? And if so, why? I mean, no, it’s not the happiest time to live in New Orleans, but he was such an upbeat guy, how could he have been that depressed?
Of course, the weirdest thing–the whole reason for this rambling, maudlin post–is that I remember Jason’s laugh best of all.
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