I've come to realize after 15 years that Fat Habits should not be the title to my first novel.....

Muse at Boston Garden January 25th 2016

When I found out Muse was playing I knew I wanted to go, no, had to go. I had missed about three concerts going back to the summer of 2015 because of work. This time I was going and that was that. Paul and Lou had bought tickets back when they went on sale in the fall and I kind of just forgot until our Christmas night on the Common. Then I forgot again until a week before the show and that’s when I hit the ticket agencies. I didn’t care where I sat— floor, loge or balcony, as long as I could hear them cleanly. I almost bought a ticket from vendors due to my impatience but these days I have a hard time, on principle mind you, handing over an extra twenty bucks for transaction fees. So I went to Craigslist. Most people were selling pairs but I was going solo. Rich had wanted to go but backed out the preceding week. I didn’t put great effort into rustling up company— half ass threw it out on Facebook but met little response. Finally I found a guy in Brookline who was selling one ticket for 75 bucks. That Saturday, during the initial flurries of the snowstorm, I drove in, met him, thanked him and was gone.

Anytime I see a show in Boston I usually park at the old garage for free at 125 High Street. None of the heads are there after 6:00 and trust me, Security doesn’t know the difference between who is parked in the garage or not. I know this from my time as a security officer there. I can even get passed the doors by pulling up to the garage door where the buzzer, speaker and camera is located. I say in my best nonchalant voice, “firehouse,” and they buzz me in. That’s how the firehouse people and their friends get into the building. They have their own free parking area. Besides, I got my nephew on Robin’s side, also named Kyle, a job there as a security officer, about a year ago. They love him and he has influence so if I need to fall back on him to park, I can. 

Anyway. Good night for a walk through Boston, 20 minutes to the Garden on a not so cold winter night. The overhead Christmas lights that line the Fanuel Hall plaza were still up, blinking wonderfully. Inside the Garden, my seats were balcony, first row (no one in front of me) and perfect for taking some video. Pretty much aligned with center stage, just a hair to the left. Perfect filming conditions actually. I generally film with my camera if I have a good vantage point, which I did. If I don’t have good spot , I either abandon the idea or just take a clip or two. This night I captured 5 songs. I created a montage of them that I put on Facebook. I don’t like to bombard the Facebook feed with a lot of stuff so I just sampled the five files into one. I thought if there were any Muse fans out there that they might enjoy it but no one commented on it so… that was a waste of time... oh well. Here are the tunes I captured, for the most part in their entirety.

I had to water down these videos from high quality to low quality so they would make the 100 megabyte size restriction per file. Also, though I love the video quality of my camera, the zoom sucks-- it doesn't have a fluid motion. When I zoom in or out, it does so a frame at a time which looks choppy and unprofessional. Generally I try not to use zoom on it unless I know that I will be editing out the zooms later.

The second to last clip is the montage file I posted on Facebook. The last clip, a 45 second clip was taken with my cell phone so I could text it to Rich and Dano so they could see and feel the atmosphere of the show.

Gone Chapter 11 rewrite (draft)

A cool fall breeze swept across the rocky field and through an open bay door where the supervisor stood smoking. Inside the warehouse, baseball chatter filled the work stations above the low drone of machines and radio. The Red Sox were down to the Yankees, 3 games to none. Pedro and Jakey were not baseball fans.

“If you had three choices,” said Pedro. “A bottle of vodka… fuck your mother or … jump off a building, what would you chose? If you had to.”

“Duh. Vodka,” said Jakey.

Pedro arrived at the plant every morning five minutes late, disheveled and often smelled like rum and Listerine; and despite a growing debt, Jakey kept abundant bags of pot at his disposal.

 “Okay… you get so drunk you fuck your mother. In the morning when you realize you fucked your mother, you want to die. Then you jump off the building.”

“I’d fuck your mother,” said Jakey.

Pedro rolled with laughter.

“You guys are disgusting,” said Cindy.

Cindy wore too much bad makeup. Her jeans fit too tight on her plump figure where she was often seen, after work, parading around sleazy bars.

“I’d still take you over a pint of Smirnoff any day,” said Jakey.

She gave him the finger and scowled. “Okay jerk off,” she said.

“You’re all a bunch of miscreants,” said Mandy.

Mandy, the benevolent one and single mother held two jobs and raised her kids on below average salaries.

They were pickers— including the handful of Haitians who spoke horrendous English, and who kept to themselves. A picker’s job was to pick the items on invoice slips from the plethora of shelves and cabinets in the musty warehouse. Each picker pushed a flat bed cart and carried the invoice on a clipboard. They wore gloves to lift and move boxes of springs of all shapes, sizes and metals. Upon completion of each order, they rolled the carts back to their work stations. They would double check their work and stack everything in a neat pile on the floor until the checker came along with his clipboard and marker and who would check the invoices against the picked products. Once the checker cleared the order, the picker would stack everything on a pallet and wrap it in plastic. Then, the cherry picker, that is, the fork lift driver would snag the pallet and load it into waiting trucks.

Alec had mastered the forklift when the position opened up and was promoted to Shipping and Receiving manager. He learned to use a computer to log orders and do inventory. He became fascinated with the computer and bought one for his apartment. It came installed with 3-D typographical maps of the United States and he could map roads to any destination. Encyclopedia discs accessed information about weather and environment. Once he mastered the basics, he began to connect to the wildly popular internet— the new means of global communication. He chatted with strangers from England, Spain and Brazil. He learned to download his favorite music— Pink Floyd songs that relaxed him; the Brandenburg Concertos which helped him sleep.

Technology made him more of a recluse and less dependent on the outside world. He used electronic mail, shopped over the web and played video games with gamers on the west coast. As years slipped away, technology grew even smarter. He streamed movies. He paid bills from the comfort of his computer chair. He discovered MySpace, a community of individuals, just like him, gathered together through the loneliness of their lives— masturbating their thoughts across monitors for all to read. In time, he learned how to absorb the world through his fingertips without leaving his chair. By 2004, enslaved by social networks and Google, he rarely went outside— only to and from the spring packing plant.  

“Mandy, good morning,” he said.

“Hi Al.”

“You signed off on this invoice yesterday. I found an extra package here on top of the pallet.”

He leaned in close and showed her the invoice. Pedro and Jakey discussed women and pot and which of the two, made them feel better.

“Yes. The new guy. I didn’t sign off on that. Check with him,” she said.

“Who?”

“He started yesterday.”

Alec was always the last to know about new additions.

“Thanks. Where is he?”

She pointed to the station in the corner, buried beneath rows of pallets— the coldest part of the warehouse. Alec crossed the floor dodging makeshift piles of boxes and plastics.

He was hunched over his table, filling out stickers, carefully printing each letter. He wore headphones and seemed to be involved in a rock concert. Alec stood behind him and the new guy had no idea but kept on listening to music and printing stickers. On the floor was a row of small boxes partially filled with orders of springs; his misshaped pallet, off to the side. He tapped him on the shoulder.

He turned around, whipped off his headphones and smiled.

“I’m Alec, shipping and receiving manager.”

“Kyle Samuels.”

Alec was amazed by the likeness, the way his chin thrust out, the intelligent look in his eye and his muscles that flexed in his neck when he talked, like nervous twitches.

“Did you leave a package here?”

He showed him the invoice and then pointed to the box, still sitting there atop the pallet.

“Mandy checked my order. I hadn’t picked it yet. I put it there so it wouldn’t get lost,” he said.

“It’s okay just let someone know next time.”

Alec smiled and turned away heading to the office. As he crossed the warehouse, he could not get the image of his brother out of his mind, an image he had not thought about in a few years.

                                                           

                                                                            *

Like most recent days, talk in the lunchroom focused around the Red Sox and how they miraculously survived game 4 to stay alive. Not Kyle— he quietly read a thick text book, The Origin of Photography. Alec liked to sit alone and observe everyone who sat at the front of the lunchroom, closer to the TV and snack machines, Alec enjoyed the back, the quiet, the separation.

“That’s a good book,” said Alec.

Kyle shrugged. “You read it?”

“Yeah, like seven years ago. Different cover. Same title.”

 “I’m taking a course at NESOP.”

“Small world. I went there too.”

“When did you graduate?”

 He paused. He had to think a minute. His mind spun blankly.

“I used to live in those dark rooms,” Alec said.

“Dark room? They don’t use those anymore,” said Kyle.

“Huh?” 

“Photography’s all Photoshop, man— more like a computer dark room. Actual dark rooms are more like antiquated hobbies.”

Alec’s jaw just about dropped out. In just seven years, the photography world had turned upside down. Students would never know the freedom and creativity of a dark room or the sweet pungent smell of mixing chemicals, observing a print grow in a tray and babying it to life. He once buried himself in the darkroom, squeeging and hanging prints on a clothesline, one after another until his arms sagged with fatigue. Now, photography had gone digital, along with everything else. Everything in life had become about the computer, one big shortcut.

“Seems like a huge waste of time and money to me,” said Kyle.

“Man, it was really cool. You’ll never know.”

Kyle went on about the limitless possibilities regarding the computer but Alec sort of spaced out from listening. He sat there and watched Kyle talking excitedly, his eyes growing big and bright like Taylor’s when he talked about his boat. Alec felt himself withdrawing quickly and pulled away. He motion towards Mandy.

“Can you get this order picked next? They’re breathing down my neck,” he said.

He handed her the yellow and pink invoice.

In the corner near the refrigerator and microwave, the TV began to show Red Sox highlights and brought everyone’s attention to it. They cheered Papi’s game winning homerun.

“This is the year. We’re breaking the curse,” said Mandy.

Alec couldn’t remember the last time he watched a game. It felt like forever.

“What curse?” Kyle asked.

 “You heard of Babe Ruth right? 1918. The Sox sold him to the Yankees. Huge mistake, man. Huge. The Yankees went on to glory and championships. The Sox went south and haven’t won a World Series since then.”

Mandy leaned in close as if she were about to divulge some huge secret.

“It’s not just that,” she said. “Every time they were on the verge of a championship, whether it was one out or one strike away— just one easy play from certain victory, the ghost, and I believe this, the ghost of Babe Ruth would screw with destiny and turn things into incredible loss.”

“That sucks,” said Kyle.

“It’s like they sold their soul to the devil and since then have been cursed to fail,” she said.

“Baseball. It’s kind of like watching eggs hatch. I could care less,” said Kyle.

“You better care,” said Alec.

“Why?”

“What they don’t tell you in the brochure is that NESOP is right across the street from Fenway Park. Better get used to leaving early and staying late. Get used to waiting for a lot of eggs to hatch.”

Mandy laughed. “I’ll take my eggs over easy,” she said.

                                                   *

That night, a severe headache got him to bed early. He gobbled amitriptyline. He thought about the past. He wondered how Zack and Benny’s lives had turned out. He hadn’t heard from either of them since a few brief but unreciprocated letters, three years ago. It pained him how reclusive he had become to the point he couldn’t even respond to them with simple short letters. Were they gone for good? Would they ever come home? Had he distanced himself too far? The questions tired him out and soon he was asleep.

His dad’s house was abandoned. The yard was overgrown with tall grass. Inside, spider webs filled the rooms throughout the house. Alec tip-toed up the stairs, toward his old room and then he heard it. In the closet, it growled. A human scream cried out, in pain— the ripping of torn flesh and cracking bones terrified him. Somehow he knew: the victims were Zack and Benny, savagely eaten and the unwanted body parts spit out on the floor. Alec passed the remains and opened the door.  A gruesome plant-animal beast wailed; behind it were two starved siblings, whining and shaking its moist plant arms. The mother reached out beyond Alec with her long spongy tentacle and snagged Mr. Walker, who put up little fight as if he had no chance. It injected foamy mucous into his throat. The beast moaned a deadly singsong rapture like a mythological siren.

Alec turned and ran. The dizzying scream followed him until he came to a hill where, it faded into a profound silence. An ominous voice rose up from a great distance and threatened to devour the human race. The sky transformed into a black sulfurous cloud; the earth, a wasteland 
 
before his eyes like some demented magic trick. He knew fire could destroy the beasts, only fire. He dragged a canoe into the great river and proceeded cautiously through its bubbly current. He stood up, balancing precariously and observed a menacing Viking ship racing upriver, its sails howling like demons. From the bow, a wooden bust carved in the shape of the plant beast thrust out. The voice called out again.

“Your presence here has a powerful effect even if not chosen.”

Alec stood on the edge of the universe, rigid and stoic. A halo appeared over the river. He welcomed God. Ebullient rays of light shot thru the dark and the Viking ship disappeared.

He woke in a deep sweat, just like he used to.     

                                                                             *

At his apartment, he was in the mood to clean things, reorganize and start something, a project maybe, ideas about color, pictures maybe. He spent a good deal of cleaning out his desk drawer. He pushed aside the handful of letters from Cassandra and a few birthday cards. Travel letters from Zack and Benny, filled with stories from the road, held together by a rubber band. If only he had the energy to respond to them then, in detail. He’d only bore them with his mundane life. He didn’t blame them if they were angry with his indifferent attitude.

He knew he hadn’t been the same since Taylor’s death. He didn’t understand the changes sometimes. He blamed life, sometimes God, which amused him— he swore off God that day which left a huge hole in his universe. He saw things in that hole sometimes, Taylor in his favorite Patriots jersey, sitting there, staring into the black, still and silent. Sometimes his father’s voice roared across the sky, angry, disappointed.  Once in a while, Cassandra appeared, standing on the edge, her face pinched down with guilt.

He closed the drawer and turned toward the couch. He turned on the TV with the clicker and settled in. Like he always did, he turned on Fox channel for The Simpsons. He was beat. He passed out ten minutes into its rerun.

When he woke darkness had fallen outside the window. The game was on, game 6 at New York. He tried to change the channel but the clicker wouldn’t click. The buttons stuck. He couldn’t get caught up in it now. Why invest such emotion and soul into failure?

Season after season befell one disappointment after another. In his baseball life there were villains, Bucky Dent and Aaron Boone; scapegoats like Bill Buckner and Grady Little— the list of players and losses transcended his young age. Now, in 2004, Alec knew the script already and refused to buy into the hype. Before game one began, he had promised Mandy, an avid Yankees fan, a quick Boston demise. He certainly looked like a prophet as they quickly fell behind three games to none. He gathered his verbal ammo to counter all those over-the-top flag wavers and “reverse the curse” slogan posters on the break room wall at work, the billboards above the post office and spray painted along Charles River Bridge. Here was his old team, suddenly making some noise, not going down quietly.

He pushed himself off the couch, turned off the TV and lay in bed. He listened to Dark Side of the Moon until he fell deeply asleep.

                                                                          *

He was a little surprised that he agreed to go out with the work crew. First of all, he hadn’t touched alcohol in a couple of years, it had begun to sicken him really— he equated it with his father, a functional alcoholic for so many years until the end when he just fell off the cliff. Secondly, he hadn’t been out to a restaurant or bar since the days he and Cassandra had date night. Back in the day, Taylor, Zack and Benny hung out at Smackers in Quincy, called Chutes back then where they drank through pitchers of beer like lemonade on a hot day.  

He was wild then— they all were. That was 1994— the summer of Woodstock, when 

Alec had taken a drug, given to him by a passing stranger. In the ensuing time afterwards, he lost Zack and Benny, lost his bag with clothes, money and toothbrush and spent the weekend living from tent to tent. By the end, he was miserable and cold. No way home, no money to make a call or for a bite to eat. It was raining too and all he had to wear was his muddy sneakers and shorts. His only options were to walk home or thumb a ride. He tried to thumb— shivering and starving like a homeless dog, splashing through puddles and trash. It was like a bizarre dream when, from the other side of the road, Taylor pulled up along the road and waved him to his car.

“Jesus. What happened to you?” Taylor asked.

“Long story.”

“Get in.”

He slunk into the front seat. The heat felt good. In time he would be able to smell his body odor.

“How did you know?”

“Zack called. Said he lost you Friday night.”

“I couldn’t find them. I looked all over.”

“Well I guess it’s your lucky day.”

Taylor always watched out for his little brother.

That was the year Taylor bought his boat coincidentally, the year of his success in the financial world— when he started raking in the cash, getting everything he seemingly wanted in life. It was His time, his future was now and there was no stopping him.

So there Alec stood on the floor of Smackers, sight of the old Chute before the owners had sold it around the turn of the century. They headed toward the back— Kyle, Mandy, Pedro, Jakey, Cindy and even a couple of the better speaking Haitians. This was Cindy’s favorite watering hole. It looked foreign to Alec. Gone was the small side room where the owner kept board games like Jenga and Zack’s favorite, dirty word Scrabble. The dart room was now a small stage where a DJ was set up, spinning tunes. There were TV’s on every wall and of course the Red Sox game was on, game 7. A crowd was sidled up at the bar their moods hanging on every pitch.

Cindy led them to an open table near the pool table. A waitress came and they ordered beers, except for Alec who got a Coke. Pedro and Jakey complain about the the indent in the concrete floor at work, where the fork lift drivers have to avoid or it might topple. “It’s a fucking sink hole. I’m going to sprain my ankle one of these days,” said Pedro.

“I just avoid it. At all costs,” said Jakey.

“Sort of like responsibility,” said Cindy.

“Funny.”

“How long have you been there now?” Kyle asked.

“I was here before Alec. I don’t know. 15 years, I guess.”

“Damn that’s a lifetime.”

“I’ll probably retire there someday.”

“I couldn’t imagine that. As soon as school is done, I’m gone,” said Kyle.

“It’s a job man. It pays the bills. It’s close to home. I wouldn’t go anywhere else,” said Jakey.

“To spend my adult life in such a depressing and dusty, uninspiring place… I’d take less money to work elsewhere. Trust me. Money is not my concern in life. I mean, it’s a good thing to have… it leaves options. It’s not my sole goal. I want to live, be happy, fall in love and see things— beautiful things. When it’s all over, I’ll know I lived my life the way I wanted to. Roll me over into the grave, man.”

 
Alec is silent. Kyle’s words resonate in his mind and his thoughts turns over. Suddenly Alec feels a part of himself move, like a giant rock across his gut.

“Come on. Come on,” said Cindy.

She was yelling at the TV, calling out Yankees players. Then, the crowd roars. Alec looks up. It’s difficult to tell but looks like the Red Sox just scored runs.

“I wish I had taken that route,” Alec says, looking at Kyle. It surprised him to hear it come from his mouth. 

For a moment, he doesn’t remember who he is anymore, as if he had fallen into a fog of confusion— a quiet darkness, an underwater purgatory and everything around him is sucked into a tidal vacuum. The silence of his mind echoes like a ripple of air across his eardrum.

Suddenly Mandy is shaking him. “Damon just hit a granny!”

He’s drawn right back into reality, the bar, the people, the excitement of a baseball game— even Kyle is drawn toward the swirling excitement with a curious glint. Alec decides to let it all go. He pulls off his hat and faces the TV and joins the crowd to root for his Red Sox.

story idea

Main character dies, killed mangled whatever. fade to black. fade to light and he is dead but a spirit
or a soul. his goal is to get into heaven. he has no idea this is his goal. he has to come to terms
that he is dead. things along the way point him in the direction, sign posts or people and once he comes
to terms realizes that if he doesn't succeed in getting to heaven, he will be a lost soul, alone and sad.
so once he realizes his goal, he goes about his task in the same way he lived his life, determined.
but there are many lost souls and they are all looking for heaven. some souls are dumb, good some are evil. some will go to hell of course, no mention of hell yet. so he goes on his journey in search of heaven. during his search that will also be the conflict the crisis. when he reaches the gates of heaven, it is a train station and it is crowded. he discovers that there is a list inside the station and two trains, one to heaven and one to hell.
there is only a list to heaven, all others must board the hell train. he finally arrives, after much conflict,
and sees that his name is not on the list. he is a good man and tries to realize what he did to not
get a ticket to heaven. little does he know there is a chance at redemption and he will accidentally discover
this in a showdown with the devils crony.

Watertown clips from probably 1976-77 (gonna try and get more)

Clips from my youth in Watertown, mostly sports clips. Kinda working on making it a smoother edit as my mom was a horrible camera person then. On video, me, my brother, Ricky, Bobby and a few other kids from the past....

Ricky Dore: January 27, 1969- January 1, 2016

"I think Ricky Dore died," my sister texted.
"How do you know?"
"My Watertown friend, Sasha. She said it's being posted everywhere by mutual friends."
"Let me see if I can find out anything," I texted back.

Ricky Dore. His brother Bobby. Mr and Mrs Dore. Uncle Dennis. Gilbert Street. My first play-hood. Ricky was the first friend I ever met, the first friend in a line of friends in this life. It's weird. I have a vague recollection of it in memory. I'm on the sidewalk in front of my house. I'm riding a tricycle. Ricky is there too watching me. I offer him a turn. He accepts. I think we may have just moved into the house next door to the Dores. It was probably a spring day. I remember wearing a heavy jacket.

Ricky was my age; Bobby was my brother's age and it was a natural friendship. We had sleepovers. Mostly over Rickys. They had a bigger house and it was always more fun. They had the best toys. His parents used to buy boxes of Ring Dings and Twinkees and late at night I'd often sneak into the kitchen for a treat. We played wiffleball and kickball in the street and in the backyard-- and the greatest feat we could accomplish as fledgling major leaguers was to hit the big round ball with the big plastic red bat over the house for an automatic grand slam.

Bobby was more of a handful than Ricky and he always seemed to have something up his sleeve. He was sharp too. I was always trying to hustle trading cards off Ricky and he had no clue. Bobby knew that a Carl Yazstremski baseball card was no match for a Bob Watson. So of course my trades were vetoed.

Mr Dore was once my baseball coach, along with my dad and Mrs. Dore was once my cub scout Den Mother. I was not a good liar. They would bust me all the time-- especially his mom. She could spot my 6 year old lies a mile away. You did? she would say. Oh what was it like, oh really, she'd say. And I knew it too and could feel the trap closing in on me and could do nothing. Yes, I said, my dad made us leave after the 8th inning though. Oh good, she said. Where was it that the the bullpen cart come out to the field? Was it left field or right? she asked. My mind was all over the place. Can I go out now? I asked. I would hear here giggling to herself.

Uncle Dennis worked for Raytheon in Waltham. I don't know what he did for work but at home he drank a lot of beer. He had a gut so big I thought he might burst. He lived in the upstairs apartment of this two story house, minding his own business and drinking his beer and watching TV. His bedroom was on the front of the house, in what may have once been a porch but now remodeled. I remember him looking down from his window from time to time when we got rambunctious.

I got hit by a car, crossing Gilbert Street in front of my house. I don't remember getting hit. I don't even remember the moment leading up to the decision to cross. I do however remember being in the ambulance and wondering if I was dying and then I remember being in a dark metal tube with spooky colored lights. It was a great neighborhood and I remained friends with Ricky even as our family moved from Gilbert to Carey Avenue to Bromfield Street.

As I got older I met newer kids who I had more in common with like Scott Costello, Bobby Frissora and Frank Basile and I naturally gravitated towards them more as I entered 6th grade. That common denominator was mischief and trouble. Another story for another time I suppose. I remained friends with Ricky and the neighborhood. I have this vivid memory of Ricky, rubbing his hands together, excited and working himself up, the heat from his hands igniting a funny story or joke in him. He was a tender soul, harmless.

When I moved to Randolph, I eventually lost touch with Scott, Bobby and Frank-- those who I thought were my best friends. Not Ricky though. Sometimes my dad drove me to Watertown and I would stay at Ricky's house for the weekend. But, once high school came and a new set of obstacles and friends even Ricky's friendship faded, naturally. Maybe every other year I would receive a call from him and we would make plans to meet up but we never did. The last time I saw him was in January 1992, at my parents house for my Aloha party before my first adventure to Hawaii. I last saw Bobby one New Years party at my parents house, I believe 88 into 89. My brother was suddenly hanging out with Bobby for a spell back in 2006 or 2007. Sadly I think it was because my brother was buying drugs off Bobby.

Ricky, Kev, Dano, me and Scott Lesser 92

Bobby with Brenda in Dave's room.

Back to now. I went on Facebook to try and see if I could find his page, if he had one. I had done this once before when I first signed up for Facebook years ago but I must have come across a hundred Richard Dore's and wasn't even sure if he had an account so I called it quits. This time I googled him and found his parents address and saw they still lived on Gilbert Street. Then strangely, I found his Facebook page. There it was, just like that. It took me about five minutes.

So at first I noticed there were no RIP Ricky's posted on his wall; in fact, he hadn't made any comments since 2012. His profile picture looked good. He looked healthy, happy. No mention of his brother or a wife or kids. Beneath his picture it said: me, myself and I. There was a picture of a niece with a trophy that he seemed fond of. Nothing else. So I sent him a message. Write me back. Then I scrolled through his friends list. I recognized a few names from the hood but I doubt they would remember me and I wasn't going to intrude on anyone's life. I checked out a few friend's pages, nothing. No sign of Ricky's death anywhere. Until I came across Mark's page, who still lived in Watertown and his post said, "RIP Ricky Dore. I can't believe you're gone." There it was, plain as day. My first friend, gone. When I followed the ensuing thread, someone noted he had a major heart attack. A few hours later when I went back to Ricky's page, it had been removed, just like that.

I had to break my silence and know. I sent a brief letter to Mark introducing myself and my relationship with Ricky and his family. I asked if Bobby were still around. Then silence for two days. When he did respond he apologized for being the "bearer of bad news." Ricky was dead and his brother had died about five years before him. Then he copied and pasted the information to the wake. I was blown away. I didn't go to the wake. I thought about it. I asked my brother but he didn't want to go. I wanted to pay my respects to his parents. I'm sure they would have remembered me. I didn't want to go alone. And like I have before in the past, for various reasons, I chickened out.

If I could say one last thing to him, I would tell him: Rick, I wish we could have met up later on in life. I'm sorry about Bobby. I feel horrible for your parents. I wish I knew what happened to you guys.... You have been in my thoughts and memories since I heard the news. Thanks for being there in the early days, Rick.