Rage From the Edge

Jeremy


Jeremy was one of the ne’re-do-wells that I used to run with. The best way to describe him is to imagine Richard Gere and mix him with David Duchovny. I know that this really is not a quality way to describe somebody, but I can definitely say that if you were to take Photoshop and use it to meld Richard and David…you’d end up with Jeremy.

Jeremy was a very gifted artist. I don’t know what he is doing with that talent these days, but when I used to hang out with him, he could draw, paint, sketch, and sculpt with incredible skill. I always liked to work with him because he gave me tips that were always insightful; it was if he could see what I was struggling with and could fix it with a few deft maneuvers. I may not have become a great artist, but at least Jeremy showed me how to draw and how to use acrylic paints with enough ability to pretty much express what I wanted whenever I wanted. No, Jeremy was the talent…I lacked the imagination.

Jeremy, like me, also liked to party. Outside of his job, I don’t think I ever say him when he wasn’t stoned. Now, you know that I don’t like pot, but when he smoked it, it didn’t seem to bother me as much as many of the other retards that used to hang out at my apartment. So, after a busy day at work, we would meet at home; Jeremy with a pipe in his hand, me with a 12 pack of whatever cheap ass beer I was hooked on at the moment.

Art and a good buzz seemed to mix for us. We would retire to our basement where I had set up a homemade bar. There Jeremy would paint murals on the cinder-block walls and I would be in charge of the music. It was always a pretty cool time, sitting there watching him paint a huge and malevolent clown face on the wall or something else that his mind was fixated on…and there always seemed to be plenty of fixation.

One day, I came home and heard Jeremy yelling at me from the top of the stairs. He obviously in the shower; I could hear the water running. What is it that he could want me to see in there? My mind raced…I am not gay and I don’t think Jeremy is either, but it was somewhat weird being asked to go into a shower by a man yelling at you through a steamy doorway.

I entered the bathroom and there was water and sand everywhere. Jeremy had somehow obtained a three-foot tall piece of marble that probably weighed 150 pounds. He had roughed out a feminine shape into the marble and was now using a wad of steel wool to sand the piece in the shower. It cut the dust and kept it out of his lungs, he explained. So there we were, two guys in a shower in our bathing suits, sanding this hunk of marble into a really beautiful female torso…

Oh yeah, he was stoned to high heaven and I am sure I had at least six Pabst blue ribbons before the water turned cold. This all sounds really queer and it is hard to write for me. I guess I am a homophobe.

Things like that happened all the time at the apartment. You never knew what you were going to walk in on. One day, somebody would be hanging Christmas lights, the next day; somebody had stolen a grocery shopping cart from a nearby store and was busy welding it into a coat rack. There was always something crazy going on. But no matter what was going on, somebody was getting high or drunk.

This all happened in 1994-1996. Back when I was fresh out of school for the first time and I had a lot of money and time on my hands. Jeremy was in art school and had a part time job working at a medical supply company. During the tail end of 1996, a major marijuana farm in Ohio was found and destroyed by police. At first, the prices for pot skyrocketed around where we lived. Finally, the pot ran out and nobody could get anything.

I noticed a change begin to take over Jeremy. He stopped painting around the house. He stopped sculpting in the bathroom. He stopped playing with modeling clay. It seemed as if the artistic life had been sucked out of him. I would come home and Jeremy would be sitting in front of the television, a beer in one hand, the remote in the other. He had lost whatever it was that had given him that spark. He had also not smoked pot for about five weeks. I would like to say that the two instances were somehow related; that because of the pot shortage, Jeremy was just feeling down because he couldn’t relax the way he was used too. I am not sure I can say that though. I think more sinister things were at work in the apartment.

First off, around that time I was dating somebody who was really needy. I was expected to do things that didn’t fit in with the way things had been going. Jeremy didn’t understand, and looking back now, I don’t understand why I was such a tool either. Next, I was drinking a lot more than I had been. If a little was this much fun, then a lot would be a heck of a lot more fun! That always seems to be my downfall with alcohol…I know when to quit, but why? Finally, Jeremy had gotten a promotion at his medical company job. He was now expected to show up on time and to wear a tie. The people he was working with understood that he would not be there forever, but they were locked into careers at the place. They were total assholes to him because he could escape.

That didn’t help him at the moment though. Being stuck with a bunch of backstabbing douche bags isn’t productive and it is not a pleasant way to spend eight hours of work. He came home and threw things. He came home and went straight to the basement to pour himself a drink and sulk. He didn’t want to go to class anymore. He stopped sketching. Work was turning Jeremy into an automaton that could only be miserable.

I would like to say that the story of Jeremy has a happy ending. It does not. The pot drought went on, extending for at least another six months and cutting Jeremy off from his stress relief valve. He seemed to grow more distant as each payday went by…knowing that he was not going to be able to purchase his precious sack of bud; even though he tried and tried.

We had our continued differences as well. The night he came home to me drunk and trying to burn down a stack of beer cans was probably the straw that broke the camel’s back, but I am not sure. See, he was pissed that I had used up all his acrylic glue for the stack and I think he was more mad about that than the actual fire burning out of control in our living room. Don’t worry, I bought him a new can of the stuff.

Finally, after having had it with me and not being able to smoke pot, Jeremy moved into some girl’s house. I helped him move and the new place was tiny. I am not sure if they were sleeping together at that time, but I am sure that she had designs on him. He had no place to set up and paint or sculpt. It all seemed like some sort of twisted plan. I felt sorry for him.

A few months later, Jeremy called me. He wanted to get together and go out. He said that he had a few days off, some extra cash, and he was growing tired of the girl he had moved in with…but yes, she was pregnant and they were going to be married. He explained that this night out was going to be our last hurrah.

We met at this old bar we used to hang out in back in our “salad days.” In the parking lot, before we entered the building, Jeremy pulled out his pipe and a small sack of pot. He stuffed the marijuana into the bowl of the pipe and quickly smoked the contents. We then entered the bar and the night was a carbon copy of the hundreds of nights we had gone out before. Jeremy was the same Jeremy.

That was the last time I saw Jeremy except for one time when I passed him in traffic. He waved at me, I waved at him, and we didn’t speak. But that night was really “it.” He went on with his own life and I went on with mine. After the bar had closed down, one of our friends suggested that we go to a local fast food joint for some after-hours grub. Jeremy and I agreed. It seemed as if he didn’t want the night to end. About six of us piled into somebody’s car.

On the way to the fast food place, I thought it would be a good idea to smoke a cigarette. I brought out my pack and lighted a smoke without paying attention to what I was doing. A small part of the cigarette fell onto the flannel shirt I was wearing. The car stopped at a very busy intersection, stuck in the left turn lane while we waited for oncoming traffic to clear.

“Dan!!!” Somebody in the front seat yelled. I glanced up from being drunk and stupid and realized that the whole front of my shirt was on fire. “OH SHIT” I yelled and jumped out into the intersection, wildly slapping at the fire on my clothes.

Jeremy thought this was insanely funny and got out to help. Somehow, while he was climbing out of the car, he decided that he needed to go to the bathroom.

That is the last really clear memory of my old friend. The whole scene played out in the middle of a busy intersection. Me slapping myself because I am on fire and him, pants around his ankles as he pisses on the pavement.