My only cellmate in Moose Lake prison knew that I was going
to boot camp. For the first few days he warned off the wannabe bikers from
trying to intimidate me into giving them my newspaper every week in exchange
for not beating me up because they assumed I was a sex-offender because of my
state-issue glasses. I’ll admit, I questioned myself in the mirror a few times.
He knew a few other guys that were also non-violent offenders and were going to
C.I.P. and he offered to introduce me to a few of them so that I wouldn’t
accidentally make friends with an actual rapist.
He brought me out into the common area and took me to a
table where there was a rather lanky, tall, bald-headed man playing cards and
introduced me to him as a fellow boot camper. We chatted, realized we were both
from St. Paul, and spent the next few months playing Monopoly, cribbage, and as
many different games as we could find to help pass the time. He became one of
my friends along with a select few gentlemen that seemed to care about not
being in prison anymore. We were the few that gave a shit.
The tall one I’ll call Mac, to protect his identity. You’ll
know why soon enough. Mac was there when I ran my first mile, and he helped me
get my technique down and breathing pattern correct enough to pass the fitness
test for boot camp. I distinctly remember one time he ran a mile backwards
while I was struggling to run a few laps at all. I was wearing my full prison-blue
uniform, and he had on his optional sweat shorts and white t-shirt. It was hot,
and it was the worst.
Mac went to boot camp two months before I did, and thus left
two months earlier. We maintained contact in the program as much as possible
even though we were housed in separate barracks, and when he got out, he wrote
me a letter. He told me he found work, and that I should come get a job at a
laminating factory when I got out.
I did. And I ended up moving into the house he was in and we
were roommates for nearly a year. We were really friends. We loved baseball,
and went to several Twins games together. We had grill outs, went to meetings,
talked at coffee shops. We were sober and we weren’t bored. We remained friends
for years after we evolved in our lives and purchased homes, and found our
forever-gals. We chatted, we met, and we reminisced.
Yesterday, I took the girls to the pool in town after
writing my blog post. While I was there, I received a message request over
Facebook messenger, and it was his mother. She asked me to call her.
My heart sank.
I knew something was wrong, and I hoped that it wasn’t
relapse. I hoped she just wanted to plan a surprise party, and she wanted to
invite me. I called her.
Mac died yesterday morning after
a short struggle with our mutual disease of addiction and alcoholism.
My heart is shattered; tears
streaming as I try to write these words on my keyboard. My friend—one of my
true friends who can identify with who I am, what I’ve been through, and how I
think—is gone forever.
Mac.
I need you back. I didn’t know you were hurting, and I want to fix it so you
don’t have to die. We need you. We need your love, compassion, and your
friendship. I want to go back so you can tell me you need help. I want our
times back so I can remember more. I want to hear you laugh and call me Mr.
Meartz like we had to do in boot camp. I saw you in the sunrise today through
the clouds and I cried because you didn’t answer me. I know you can hear me. I
know you know I love you.
You
don’t get to see the sunset anymore, and it’s never going to be as beautiful
for me knowing you can’t see it. It’s only been a day and I already miss you so
much. I should have called you more; I should have seen it coming. I should
have seen the signs, but you were hiding. I’m so sorry you were hurting. I’m so
sad you’re gone.
