College roommates expose Fischer truths!

August 8, 2009

[[I'm jealous of you New Yorkers/East Coasters who'll get to join together and commemorate David this weekend. I offer the second draft of what will be a perpetual work-in-progress, and a fairly crummy (but relatively recent!) photo of David (in a sushi restaurant in Baltimore) in '05. -Ben ]]

The weather is 103º as I write this, after a record-breaking month of July here in Austin. It reminds me of another instance of heat-related “What was I thinking?,” when in August 1987 David and I drove from Bloomington, Indiana, where I was in grad school, to New Orleans. We traveled the historic Natchez Trace Parkway on the way down, sweated a lot in the cemeteries and streetcars, and saw a great funk band, Bad Mutha Goose, at Tipitina’s. On the way back David lobbied for us to divert to Metropolis, Illinois, which had some kind of Superman museum, but I nixed it. Sorry, David. Anyway, the highlight of the trip occurred in Indiana, where the possibly sadistic operator of a horse trail set us atop two wild stallions who lunged through the thick woods as we held on for dear life.

That David and I voluntarily undertook a hot summer driving vacation showed how our friendship had matured and solidified, after being forged under stress our junior year at the University of Virginia. We shared a small bedroom in the Lambeth Apartments. Sharing an apartment is one thing, but it’s rather inhumane to force college students to share a bedroom. I wasn’t particularly focused or happy back then, and I’m sure it was no picnic for David. Years later he said “I must have driven you crazy.”

Two David phrases that drove me crazy: “Cheer up.”

And “Do what you want.” I *will*, David.

And when I made one of my pathetic attempts at cooking, as soon as I served it up you’d start doctoring it, what nerve! But David, plenty else other than you was driving me crazy back then – take a smidgen of blame if you must.

Luckily we didn’t kill each other, and even voluntarily lived together our senior year in a six-person group house at 1311 John Street. It was my best year of college, and one of the best years of my life. I’m no actuary, but it seems improbable that 25 years on, two of we six are no longer living, and another had open-heart surgery. Not unfair, but improbable.

It was me, Mr. Skinny Non-Smoker, who had the quadruple bypass less than three months ago. David was the first person I spoke with on the phone afterwards. It was around 6:30am, the morning after the operation, and I was still in the ICU, with a few tubes sticking out of me. But I had definitely come out the other side. Selfishly I was thinking practical: one “I’m OK” call to the guy who gets the word out, without fail. David was reliably great at that, and he must have enjoyed doing it.

In the friendship ledger, *David* owes *me* a phone call from the ICU.

Now I’m walking around like nothing ever happened except this scar on my chest. Death came after both of us this summer. And I flatter myself thinking I’d take half the hit with you, just so we’d both still be standing, or at least sitting. But those deals are only ever offered in fiction, as you the fiction maven know.

As my disability leave was drawing to a close in July, I floated the idea of a four-way John Street reunion, comprising as many as possible out of me, David, Harris and Joe. (Tiffany resides in Hawaii and comes mainland infrequently.) David set up a spreadsheet-like application, and we all input our availability, but the best we could do was three of us, in Rhode Island, without David, whose still-busy schedule was now occupied with possibly resettling his mother in Maryland.

College buddy reunions are already fertile ground for reminiscing, but when Joe cracked open a box of old photos, the floodgates opened. We basically recounted much of our whole college experience, invoking many memories of David. Sure we were sorry David wasn’t there right then in Joe’s backyard. But really there was only joy, in what was our unwitting rehearsal for this new ritual.

And I find myself returning to your drive-me-crazy phrase: “Cheer up.” I *will*, David, for your sake and for ours.

Ben Kim
Austin, TX