14 Chapter 13: Social Lubrication and Fragility
During this particular period in Grade Eleven there were many friends who walked into my life. There was a guy named Ronald who came into my bubble at age sixteen. He was a rugged, high energy type fella who exuded kindness and just loved to be moving from place to place. We met at one of the many house parties we attended that fall and decided to hang out together on a Friday night in mid-October of 2004.
He got dropped off at my place, we said our "hey, how are yeahs", chugged a few beers, chomped on a few burgers before walking to a friend's party a couple of kilometers away. Labatt Blue was our drink of choice and we continued to guzzle them during our three or four Kilometer walk to get there.
The house party turned out great, I got a little frisky with a couple girls, some dude told me he was "in love with beer" ugh, I can't imagine the sex, and to top it all off I actually remembered the entire thing.
When it was time for Ronald and I to head home we were pretty lit up, especially Ronald. He was wearing a bookbag that still had a few sock-wrapped beers inside.
Well; we were chatting and carrying on when he impulsively decided to flip over a red metal bench that sat directly beside the main roadway. I looked around, assessed the situation, decided I didn't care, and dummied his decision down to a simple desire to wreak havoc (I salute you Ronald). It was perfect timing because right then a police car drove by. The lights and sobering sounds were turned on immediately, the officer searched our backpack, confiscated the beer and then told us to "get in the back". They dropped Ronald off first, followed by me. I got them to drop me at my Dad's cause that's where I was staying that particular weekend. Dad still lived in Devon. When the officer was done chatting with my Faja (Austin Powers Goldmember) there was no real commotion, Dad; once again was calm, and I made my way up to my room. In shame and with regret.
A few days later I found out that Ronalds's Mom freaked out at him and said that he couldn't hang out with me anymore, that I was a troublemaker. When hearing that I was called a "troublemaker" my mind balked, I was still under the visage of being the golden child. I remained under that visage for many more years. It's part of how I lived with myself. "Oh, I'm a good boy on the inside, kind and considerate, it was the alcohol, not me". That really only works for so long before your just another loonie, basing your character on self-manipulation rather than on real concrete evidence.
Ronald and I hung out a few more times. Our "go to" was burgers and pop, or "burgs and pop" as we called it, but as Grade Eleven travelled onward we slowly drifted apart. We'd see each other from time to time at various house parties and exchange niceties, other than that we didn't really talk. Tragically, a few years later Ronald was the victim of a horrific car accident. It happened so quickly that it didn't seem quite real. I guess that's the thing about death. It's so finite, so permanent, all your left with is the memories and the love, the moments you spent with that person etched into your heart forever, the memories of joy and connection both a blessing and a curse.
A couple years after Ronald's death I had a dream about him. Both of us were riding motorbikes on a rural highway. The road was surrounded by flat prairie land covered in wheat that seemed to stretch on for miles. In the distance, there were large, snow peaked mountain tops. When my bike came side by side with his we made eye contact, a calm warmth slid over my entire body as his smile met mine, and then I asked him "what's it like?" (referring to the after-life). He said "unbelievable" in an awe-inspired, majestic sort of manor that cannot be fully captured with words; it was that transference of absolute love between us that I'll never forget. When I woke up there was a feeling of contented joy that caressed my consciousness; a feeling of eternal hope. It brings me peace whenever I remember...
