March 11
March 11
March 10, 2024
The last time I spoke to my old friend Keith, who I’ve known since the eighth grade, was only a month or so before he passed. I’m profoundly sorry about that now. As sometimes happens between people who have known each other for ages and who are in a certain sense family, relationships go through changes. In our case, he was coming on more and more like an overbearing big brother and it pissed me off. So the last time he called me, which was either in late ’20 or early ‘21, and left a message, I didn't return his call. And thus commenced another of what I've believed for the past three or four years was simply one of our "Let's see who breaks down and calls the other first" contests. Not knowing about his fatal stroke, I always assumed that my not returning his call had pissed him off as well, and that and plain pride had stayed him from calling me again. And again, I'm profoundly sorry about all that crap now.
But then, frankly, he never came off as very needy at all. More the opposite of needy (and more on that later when I've meditated more on it). In any case, from what I’d gathered from our previous sporadic conversations over the months and years, he had plenty of new friends down in Asheville, and he could get along fine without me. Better, in fact. than I could without him. It seems to me It’s a lot easier to make friends in a place like Asheville than it is New York. Hell, I spent the winter and spring of 1974 in Chapel Hill, NC, a very cool and easy place to live back then — homeless, for the most part — and I had plenty of friends. (Problem was, I was an irresponsible, codependent young bastard back then, and I quickly wore out my welcome with most of them.) No, I didn’t think I’d be missed.
But I’d always had Keith in my mind all these years. When I’d see a good movie or a good series on television, I’d often think to myself, damn, Keith would like that. Or if I was moved by some music I’d hear, or sometimes as I’d read a good novel. If I’d do some nice soloing during my regular evening practice session on my Les Paul. I’d often imagine him riding shotgun as I’d race up and down the avenues and streets of Manhattan in my yellow cab searching for fares.
So, to cut to the chase, just a few days ago I had a dream with him in it. He was out in front of my building on 88th St. between York and East End, shirtless and doing some kind of kung fu kata. What I didn’t notice at first but did shortly was his right arm was missing. This latter detail didn’t concern me at first. When I woke I thought about giving him a call and asking him what in tarnation he was doing in front of my building doing kung fu kata with one arm. But I soon began to worry there might be some dire meaning to the dream, so I began calling his old numbers that I still have. Soon frustrated with that route, of course, I did some Internet probing to see if he was still living in Asheville and found this memorial site. It’s been an emotional gut punch to say the least. I hope I can recover from it and go on with my life.
Well, that’s my two cents for the time being, folks. I hope to have some more about Keith on the site soon, some stories — and I have a lot, believe me. For now, here's a tribute poem that my late brother Eric, who was also his friend, wrote years ago.
FOR KC A POEM BY ERIC EDDY
I DID NOT!
UNDERSTAND YOU!
I DID NOT!
HANG OUT ON YOUR STREETCORNERS!!
I WAS NOT!
BROUGHT UP DOING TIME!!
BUT TIME HAS BUILT A WALL
AROUND ME TWICE AS HIGH.
AS A BOY YOU PLAYED IN RED BRICK EAST HARLEM
HOUSING PROJECT VACANT LOTS
AND DREMPT OF A WHITE WORLD DOWNTOWN:
A SIXTEEN YEAR OLD BLACK TORNADO
WITH OVERDEVELOPED SHOULDERS
A KNIFE AND FRESH NEEDLE MARKS.
THE STICKUP KID PROWLED FIFTH AVENUE
UNTIL HIS LUCK RAN OUT…
YOU GOT THE SAME PROBATION OFFICER
AS MY BROTHER AND THAT’S HOW WE MET.
THIS POEM IS FOR YOU KC.
KC WHO BEAT UP JUNKIES ON SECOND STREET
WHO BEAT UP JUNKIES ON 105TH STREET
WHO GOT HIS ARM BROKE WITH A CROWBAR.
. THIS POEM IS FOR YOU KC…
WHOSE TEMPER WAS LIKE A HAIR TRIGGER
WHOSE ARMS WERE LIKE THICK STEEL CABLES
WHOSE FISTS WERE AS HEAVY AS BRICKS
BUT WHOSE HANDSHAKE WAS FOR REAL…
UNTIL IT WASN’T REAL ANYMORE…
WHOSE BLOOD RAN UNDILUTED
THROUGH A WARRIOR’S HEART
AND UP INTO A GLASS EYEDROPPER,
WHOSE DADDY WAS COAL,
WHOSE MOMMY WAS COFFEE,
WHO LIFTED WEIGHTS EVERY DAY FOR TEN YEARS
BUT WHO WRESTLED WITH REJECTION
JUST AS POORLY AS I…
WHO PROUDLY STATED, “I’M NOT AFRAID OF VIOLENCE”
WHO ALWAYS HELD BACK AT LEAST FIFTY PERCENT
OF WHO HE REALLY WAS,
BY PRETENDING TO BE SOMEBODY ELSE
WHO KNEW ABOUT LIFE LIKE ONLY A HUSTLER CAN
AND NEVER SAID “I’M SCARED.”
WHO WAS A LEADER OF MEN
AND A LOVER OF WOMEN
WHO DOMINATED THOSE AROUND HIM
WITH A THIRST FOR HUMOR AND TRUTH
WHO WAS ALWAYS LARGER THAN LIFE
AT LEAST MY LIFE
AND MADE ALL SUFFERING SEEM INSIGNIFICANT
THIS POEM IS FOR YOU KC
MY VOLUNTEER BIG BROTHER
FOR FIVE INSANE YEARS…
The last time I spoke to my old friend Keith, who I’ve known since the eighth grade, was only a month or so before he passed. I’m profoundly sorry about that now. As sometimes happens between people who have known each other for ages and who are in a certain sense family, relationships go through changes. In our case, he was coming on more and more like an overbearing big brother and it pissed me off. So the last time he called me, which was either in late ’20 or early ‘21, and left a message, I didn't return his call. And thus commenced another of what I've believed for the past three or four years was simply one of our "Let's see who breaks down and calls the other first" contests. Not knowing about his fatal stroke, I always assumed that my not returning his call had pissed him off as well, and that and plain pride had stayed him from calling me again. And again, I'm profoundly sorry about all that crap now.
But then, frankly, he never came off as very needy at all. More the opposite of needy (and more on that later when I've meditated more on it). In any case, from what I’d gathered from our previous sporadic conversations over the months and years, he had plenty of new friends down in Asheville, and he could get along fine without me. Better, in fact. than I could without him. It seems to me It’s a lot easier to make friends in a place like Asheville than it is New York. Hell, I spent the winter and spring of 1974 in Chapel Hill, NC, a very cool and easy place to live back then — homeless, for the most part — and I had plenty of friends. (Problem was, I was an irresponsible, codependent young bastard back then, and I quickly wore out my welcome with most of them.) No, I didn’t think I’d be missed.
But I’d always had Keith in my mind all these years. When I’d see a good movie or a good series on television, I’d often think to myself, damn, Keith would like that. Or if I was moved by some music I’d hear, or sometimes as I’d read a good novel. If I’d do some nice soloing during my regular evening practice session on my Les Paul. I’d often imagine him riding shotgun as I’d race up and down the avenues and streets of Manhattan in my yellow cab searching for fares.
So, to cut to the chase, just a few days ago I had a dream with him in it. He was out in front of my building on 88th St. between York and East End, shirtless and doing some kind of kung fu kata. What I didn’t notice at first but did shortly was his right arm was missing. This latter detail didn’t concern me at first. When I woke I thought about giving him a call and asking him what in tarnation he was doing in front of my building doing kung fu kata with one arm. But I soon began to worry there might be some dire meaning to the dream, so I began calling his old numbers that I still have. Soon frustrated with that route, of course, I did some Internet probing to see if he was still living in Asheville and found this memorial site. It’s been an emotional gut punch to say the least. I hope I can recover from it and go on with my life.
Well, that’s my two cents for the time being, folks. I hope to have some more about Keith on the site soon, some stories — and I have a lot, believe me. For now, here's a tribute poem that my late brother Eric, who was also his friend, wrote years ago.
FOR KC A POEM BY ERIC EDDY
I DID NOT!
UNDERSTAND YOU!
I DID NOT!
HANG OUT ON YOUR STREETCORNERS!!
I WAS NOT!
BROUGHT UP DOING TIME!!
BUT TIME HAS BUILT A WALL
AROUND ME TWICE AS HIGH.
AS A BOY YOU PLAYED IN RED BRICK EAST HARLEM
HOUSING PROJECT VACANT LOTS
AND DREMPT OF A WHITE WORLD DOWNTOWN:
A SIXTEEN YEAR OLD BLACK TORNADO
WITH OVERDEVELOPED SHOULDERS
A KNIFE AND FRESH NEEDLE MARKS.
THE STICKUP KID PROWLED FIFTH AVENUE
UNTIL HIS LUCK RAN OUT…
YOU GOT THE SAME PROBATION OFFICER
AS MY BROTHER AND THAT’S HOW WE MET.
THIS POEM IS FOR YOU KC.
KC WHO BEAT UP JUNKIES ON SECOND STREET
WHO BEAT UP JUNKIES ON 105TH STREET
WHO GOT HIS ARM BROKE WITH A CROWBAR.
. THIS POEM IS FOR YOU KC…
WHOSE TEMPER WAS LIKE A HAIR TRIGGER
WHOSE ARMS WERE LIKE THICK STEEL CABLES
WHOSE FISTS WERE AS HEAVY AS BRICKS
BUT WHOSE HANDSHAKE WAS FOR REAL…
UNTIL IT WASN’T REAL ANYMORE…
WHOSE BLOOD RAN UNDILUTED
THROUGH A WARRIOR’S HEART
AND UP INTO A GLASS EYEDROPPER,
WHOSE DADDY WAS COAL,
WHOSE MOMMY WAS COFFEE,
WHO LIFTED WEIGHTS EVERY DAY FOR TEN YEARS
BUT WHO WRESTLED WITH REJECTION
JUST AS POORLY AS I…
WHO PROUDLY STATED, “I’M NOT AFRAID OF VIOLENCE”
WHO ALWAYS HELD BACK AT LEAST FIFTY PERCENT
OF WHO HE REALLY WAS,
BY PRETENDING TO BE SOMEBODY ELSE
WHO KNEW ABOUT LIFE LIKE ONLY A HUSTLER CAN
AND NEVER SAID “I’M SCARED.”
WHO WAS A LEADER OF MEN
AND A LOVER OF WOMEN
WHO DOMINATED THOSE AROUND HIM
WITH A THIRST FOR HUMOR AND TRUTH
WHO WAS ALWAYS LARGER THAN LIFE
AT LEAST MY LIFE
AND MADE ALL SUFFERING SEEM INSIGNIFICANT
THIS POEM IS FOR YOU KC
MY VOLUNTEER BIG BROTHER
FOR FIVE INSANE YEARS…