in memoriam

Why I don't like Oscar night

Just after Pulp Fiction was awarded Best
Original Screenplay the phone rang.
I didn't much like the interruption,
didn't want to leave my nest of blankets,
but since there was a commercial
anyway I answered. A voice, empty as a theatre
on an early Tuesday morning, spoke only
a few, hollow words--He's gone, friend.
Rick died
this afternoon.

I remembered the time, five years ago,
when we were seventh graders
at Bair Lake. Tradition dictated
a serious game of Capture
the Flag every Wednesday night,
at dusk. That summer, dressed in colors
of night, I prowled the tree line on the southern
edge of the playing field, near
no-man's land. Too intent on a clump
of pine trees ahead of me, I didn't hear
him creep up behind, and when he clamped
his hand over my mouth I panicked,
tried to scream. I still couldn't see
him, but as he threw me
to the ground in a slow-motion
tackle his clear, tumbling laughter
gave him away. If you ever
do that to me again, Rick Laramore,
I'll...well...just don't--
but as we wrestled in the dirt
I caught his joyful laughter.
I never could stay mad at him.

Ricky was strong, looked like a sapling
waiting for the spring rain to thicken
him up a bit, ate like a condemned
prisoner. He played soccer,
ran constantly. He had perfect
curly brown hair even though
it usually looked like he just rolled
out of bed, blue eyes that always laughed,
a mouth that told me I was worth something,
and Hodgkin's Disease.

I don't remember who won
Best Actor the night he died. All I remember
is the sound the telephone made
when I threw it at my bedroom wall, the smell
of dusty earth that filled my senses
when Ricky tackled me on that dark summer night,
the dampness of the pillow I buried
my face in to cry.

April 6, 2000