The Internet’s a Detective

The internet’s a detective. Occasionally, the names of people—not necessarily former friends—I haven't seen in many years pop into my head, and I use it to check out what they’re up to.

Usually these explorations yield little of interest—perhaps a current address or phone number I won't call—but in the past month they've revealed two surprising obituaries. The one that really threw me was for a guy who was one of my best friends in the college years. He only made it to 45, years ago, because I’d cut off the friendship.

Ed grew up in Johnson City, about an hour’s drive from my hometown in upstate New York. We met during my sophomore year via my good friend Jim, from Buffalo, who referred to him as “Ed the head.” Ed, an energetic and entertaining personality, soon became part of my inner circle of college friends. A smart guy, he was the first person in his working-class family to go to college. We both loved to ski, play tennis, smoke weed, listen to music, and drink beer.

Ed moved to San Francisco after college, and I eventually followed him there. Getting out of New York City and moving  was the best thing I've ever done. Ed let me stay in his place for months, until one day he made a stupid, reckless move while driving, and I reacted instinctively with anger. The next day he kicked me out, so I temporarily moved into a van that my brother—who disliked Ed—had left behind in San Francisco after visiting.

I enjoyed my van-life adventure, parking it right outside my favorite bar, before getting my own apartment. After a several-months cooling-off period, I invited Ed over to my place for dinner. We resumed our friendship as if nothing had happened. Hell, I’d stayed at his place longer than I should’ve so it wasn't really anything to hold against him, especially since I had a nice van to move into.

Ed eventually moved to Dallas after getting married, a wedding I flew to the East Coast for. Abandoning a great city like San Francisco for a cultural wasteland like Dallas seemed nuts to me, but his company transferred him there. Eventually, I visited Ed. The night I arrived, Ed's wife was pissed off at him because he hadn't gone to her workplace to change her flat tire. She asked him, “What kind of husband wouldn't change his wife’s tire? Silently, I had to agree with her. The visit was off to an uncomfortable start.

Ed brought his cocaine problem with him to Dallas, and held onto it even after his son was born. His wife warned me about it. Ed's favorite nighttime activity was going to strip clubs, which are known as “gentlemen's clubs” in Dallas. His friends would sometimes come along, but I didn't enjoy their company. One night we went to his buddy's house for “pre-gaming.” The coked-up guy played a video of him having sex with a woman. Disgusted, but unable to leave, I taunted the guy. But the scene didn't bother Ed. When, after drinking in bars on another evening, we went to the apartment of his closest friend in Dallas for a nightcap. For no discernible reason but drunkenness, the guy pulled a loaded pistol out of his closet and waved it around. Once again, Ed had no complaints.

I needed to get out of there. I was sleeping on the water bed in the guest bedroom, and it sprang a leak while I was horsing around with his four-year-old son. Ed got pissed, which pissed me off. Several nights later, we were discussing Ed's corporate job. He asked if I’d like to have it, and I said no, explaining my reason with logic. This upset him, so he kicked me out of his place for the second time in the morning.

The friendship didn't survive. I went back home and saw him only one more time for about five minutes. He wanted to get together, but I made up an excuse. I suppose my brother saw it before me.

According to what I could find on the internet, Ed, who'd moved to Colorado, succumbed to cancer after a rough few years. His teenage son was listed as one of his caretakers before his death. I had to wonder what that suggested, but it didn't sound good. For a number of days, I had uncomfortable thoughts about Ed’s probable suffering. Digging for information, I found his wife's Facebook. The only thing I came upon was a video of Ed, who was off screen, watching his son do flips on a trampoline and saying, “Pretty good.”

The internet detective also revealed the death of someone who had a much more fleeting role in my life. The relationship—if it can even be called that—began with an out-of-the-blue act of gratuitous violence that over the years somehow became friendly, although not via any initiative I took. My introduction to Chuck was early on in my sophomore year of high school when he blindsided me and smashed a heavy ring on his finger on my skull, provoking a scuffle. For some bureaucratic reason, I got bussed to a high school in the next town over instead of going to the nearby one where I'd already knew a bunch of students and could’ve biked to. I stood out as a stranger to be tested by the prick Chuck was at that time. We’d never even exchanged one word before that attack. Chuck—a three-sport super-jock with a personality like Ace Merrill (Kiefer Sutherland) in the movie Stand By Me—and I later found ourselves on the same cross country team, but I don't recall ever speaking to him again all the way through graduation.

I went to college, and Chuck stayed home. He surprised me by calling me when I was back in town for Thanksgiving freshman year, asking if he could come to my family home and discuss the life insurance he was selling. We talked amiably at the dining room table, and I politely declined. A couple of years later, I ran into Chuck at a hometown bar. He was with a girl and her girlfriend I'd known since high school, and suggested that the four of us go to this secluded swimming hole he knew the following day. To entertain the girls, Chuck and I stripped down to nothing and jumped from a cliff into the water.

After dark, Chuck said his family had a mobile home overlooking Seneca Lake we should go to. I was up for that. We drove there, but Chuck blew the deal by having the wrong key for it. We abandoned that plan and drove back home.

I never saw Chuck again. He died in Boynton Beach, Florida in September. His obituary didn't list the cause of death, but it mentioned that, at his request, there was no service. Two people (both former teammates—one from the wrestling team, the other from the cross country team) shared their thoughts about Chuck on the obit’s “memory board.” I recognized both names, but can't put a face to either of them.

Finding these two obituaries felt like opening folders on cold cases that I’d long ago shoved into my bottom drawer. Ed was a friend I chose, and walked away from. Chuck was mostly an accident.

I'd be happy to spend some time with either of them now, if that were still a possibility. As it is, they'll both remain fragments of my selective, often faulty memory.