Alcohol and Pain Killers

I have spoken before, in various places, of my friend The Stranger. He lived some of the time in the #22 of my building. I called him The Stranger ever since I moved in there because he would often stand outside at the railing, smoking a cigarette and speaking to anyone who might cross his path, but it was a long time before I learned his actual name, which was Kent Williams.

The residents of Central Park Condos are, for the most part, very quiet. We keep to ourselves as much as possible. Of the 30 or so residents I have only ever learned the names of about 7 of them. We pass by each other outside our doors and try our best to keep a safe distance. The Stranger, as strange as he was, somehow knew almost everybody. He would tell me all sorts of things about all of my neighbors. I’m not sure if I’m willing to believe all the things he told me, but nevertheless he seemed to know what he was talking about. I often wondered what he told the others about me.

He was often drunk, sometimes high. He was a person who had good use for pain killers. I suppose it was always inevitable that these things would one day do him in. He could be a very crude man at times when he was clearly under the influence. I often felt I had to warn new visitors to my home about him. He spoke with shocking candor most of the time, and I would get nervous about what he might say to people I brought around. Most folks, after all, are more easily shocked than I.

He would tell you scary things if you were willing to listen. He did serious time in prison for attempted murder, he told me. But I knew he was not dangerous. He also told me that he once had everything, but the world somehow got the better of him, and the ex-wife kept all the good stuff. His angry rants would sometimes give way to an undercurrent of existential bitterness. I always got the impression that he was once meant for better things, but somehow got just a little off the main road and never found his way back. I never judged.

There but for the grace of God go I.

Whenever I got home alone, and passed him smoking on the balcony, I would go over and say hello. I always had a feeling of guilt if I passed without that courtesy. We talked about a lot of things. He would sometimes yell at me like a crazy person. He would rant and rave, throwing out racial and sexual slurs like they were going out of style, and peppering it all with the most flagrant obscenities against any who would oppose his argument. I would usually just nod and say, “Absolutely, man. Absolutely.”

He possessed a large tool box. More than once I knocked on his door to ask if I could borrow a wrench or if he had an odd sized screw or bolt that I needed. He taught me some clever tricks for dealing with various technical difficulties with the pool. He had no car but rode his rickety bikes around town. Many times he knocked on my door to ask for advice on mechanical issues. Together we solved some very weird problems on more than one occasion. We helped each other out when we could. We were, after all, neighbors.

Just last week I gave him a ride to Checker Auto to get a new battery for his mom’s car. It was no big deal, but he insisted upon paying me $5.00 and a Diet Pepsi for my troubles. He put the money in my hand without a word, and I knew better than to refuse. A man who had everything once and lost it all must be allowed to keep his pride, if nothing else.

I did not see him again after that. Then last night I thought I heard a thud. I was watching Star Trek, so I wasn’t sure. My two cats both jumped. I listened for a minute, but did not get up to look out my window.

Oh God! Why didn’t I just get up and look out the window? It would have taken no more than 3 seconds.

A few minutes later I heard sirens approach and then stop. Then I heard a lot of feet coming up the stairs outside my door. I got up and looked outside and saw what must have been the entire South Salt Lake Fire and Police Departments milling around outside my window. I stepped out to see what was going on and there was a police officer with a point-and-shoot digital camera taking pictures of something below the #22 on The Stranger’s door. I took another step out and saw that it was, and was not, my friend Kent lying half propped against the wall in a pool of blood. Another officer was putting crime scene tape around. The paramedics were standing around, but not attempting to do anything. There was no doubt in my mind that he was gone.

His body lay askew in the doorway. It was as if upon walking outside his spirit had simply left and his body had just fallen right there in place like a dropped glove. I looked at it and didn’t cringe, or look away. I felt no fear, or shock. Just a sadness that seemed like it had already been there and I just hadn’t noticed it before. The whole scene was oddly peaceful, almost beautiful in a way I can not explain. It was cold, and sad, and horrifying, and yet compelling in a way that made me embarrassed. For some reason I thought of Robert Capa’s photograph of the Death of an American Soldier, Leipzig, April 18, 1945.

A couple of my nameless neighbors were standing out on the balcony watching. I could see other nameless eyes peering through window blinds. Several police were taking pictures and I couldn’t understand why. I walked up to one of my neighbors who lives next door on the other side. I don’t know his name, but he said, “Hey Brandon.”

“Hey. What happened?”

“Alcohol and pain killers”, was all he said.

“Oh.” I said. I could hear Kent’s mom Norma crying and giving some sort of statement to the police inside #22. Another of my neighbors was also in there trying to comfort her. The rest of the police and paramedics were standing around laughing quietly and asking each other about their kids. It happens every day. I wanted to go over and put a sheet over Kent’s body, at least. It all seemed so undignified.

I was shivering in the cold, but I wanted to stay. I had no morbid curiosity. There were no answers to be had. I had nothing to offer. I just felt like someone who knew him should be there. Soon the police got a call that someone had a gun at one of the hotels, and they all ran to their cars, leaving only one to stand guard over the remains, and one still questioning Norma inside. The curious neighbors withdrew into their units. A young girl, who appeared to be the official crime scene photographer, arrived and began photographing everything with a proper SLR camera. For hours people in various uniforms wandered in and out of the building. Eventually they put my friend in a bag and took him away, and I lost sleep over what is and what could have been.