One of the Guys

Back in the late 80s, after graduating from high school, I hung around a group of guys almost 'round the clock. Although my mother wasn't thrilled with the idea of her little girl among so many young men, The Guys treated me like a sister.

Okay, I dated *one* of them. And by dated, I mean we drank together at keggers and made out in his car. But Jeff dumped me after four or five months because he had needs and when I said no, I meant no.

Anyway, the rest of them were my buddies. Heavy metal types: long hair, poetic souls, beat-up vans, and hearts of gold.

I loved them dearly.

One of The Guys was Steve Seriel. His long black hair fell down to his shoulders and when he scowled, his dark eyes could look menacing. Most of the time, though, he smiled. At me. At our friends. I was the only one without a car, so Steve always made sure someone picked me up because it made him nervous to see me walking by myself. When I got mad about something, he would always say, "Don't be mean, Katie. You're better than that."

Took me to see Whitesnake. And bought me beer.

Steve was a good guy.

After starting college, I moved away from heavy metal and into the patchouli-scented arms of the hippie/activist crowd. I still invited The Guys to parties, and showed up at theirs with petitions for everyone to sign, but I lost touch with Steve.

My friend Cathy still talked to him. She had dinner with Steve just a few weeks ago and showed him pictures of my children.

Steve said, "They look just like Katie! Hopefully, they'll grow into their foreheads."

A few days later, Steve killed himself. And no one really understands why he did it. Seemed to be happier than most and content with his life.

Suicide leaves behind so many mourners with unanswered questions. It's easy to characterize those who take that route as selfish or uncaring. But my heart breaks for a guy who felt so alone and miserable he had to end his life with a bullet to the brain.

*He* was better than that.

And so, rest in peace, Steve.