“Is grief a privilege for the living?” I ask myself as I open the hatchback and load Earl into the car. Weird concept, weird notion, “loading” your friend into your car as if he’s cargo. “But he IS cargo!” I proclaim , snapping the door shut with a firm kechunk. That sound resonates and I lean against the side of the garage for a second. Death is some serious shit, no doubt. But I had no idea how complicated, how convoluted , how messy the grieving process was until I had to find a place for Earl’s ashes. Maybe that’s the test of a true, bonafide friendship: the surviving friend must expertly and meaningfully disperse the cremains (with or without fanfare).
Earl moved to Ann Arbor after a rough mental health episode in the early 1980’s. He boarded the Greyhound in downtown Detroit with only a few dollars and some hope that he’d find a city , a place where he’d feel a new start was possible. The bus pulled into the Greyhound Station on Huron Street in Ann Arbor and Earl described the feeling of looking out the bus window as … calm. He said he felt something akin to emotional safety, peace even . So he descended the steps, nodded a “ Thank you” to the driver and stepped off the bus. Earl had never heard of Ann Arbor and knew nothing about it except for how the city made him feel as the bus approached the station and downtown came into view. Earl’s new-found peace and new home — — — where he lived the next 30 + years of his life — — — was just three blocks south of the bus depot on William Street.
My life intersected with Earl’s at the Fleetwood Diner on Ashley Street (just two blocks south of the Greyhound Station). We became coffee companions and laughed so easily together. We talked about our struggles with our birth families , the absurdity of everyday human behaviors and the joys of a great cup of coffee accompanied by a thick slice of chocolate layer cake. The years flew by and my children grew up and went away to college and Earl and I continued to meet up, drink coffee, share stories and laugh our asses off.
Earl died on the kitchen floor of his first-floor studio apartment on William Street. His friend, Joel, found him and collapsed on the floor next to him, sobbing. Joel called me because my name was on the list of names taped on the kitchen wall. “ I don’t know you, Ruben. Earl talked about you all the time.He’s gone, Ruben. I’m so sorry.”
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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 The Lack of Gentle Platonic Touch in Men’s Lives is a Killer |
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Photo credit: Ruben Mauricio (Author) Me and Earl sipping coffee at the Fleetwood Diner ( Ann Arbor circa 2006)
