Somebody Else Dies

[(In which our hero is unexpectedy called to Los Angeles...)]

[So, Violet and I had a date Saturday evening to go to dinner, kill some time, then go see a blues band at this nowhere dive near the Giants' ballpark. Dinner, fine (our trusty neighborhood noodle joint, where the Thai Phat See You appears just as quickly as the bpm of the Bangkok pop emanates from the speakers); time-kill, fine (we plumped for the Friendly Neighborhood Cabaret Around The Corner, because Violet slightly knows Sean, Leah, Arthur, etc., and the drinks would be just this side of free); dive-bar-w/blues-band, fine. (Violet amused herself and me with screwing with the two meathead bartenders, and I amused myself and her with my flawless, histrionic rendition of "Hopelessly Devoted To You" when it burst forth as part of a retro melange from the jukebox that entertained us before the band went on.)]

[I checked my cell and noticed there were messages from John (text: call home asap) and Colleen (voice mail, better go outside to check). "Bill, it's Colleen. I got a call from Xxxx Xxxxxxxxx. Lars died last Sunday of (some congenital liver malady). I know this is really short notice, but Frankie and I are going down to a memorial service in L.A. tomorrow, and wanted to know if you wanted to drive down with us tonight." I sat on the curb as the few, bright lights of the Mission Bay construction project across the street and the muffled sounds of the blues band coming from within the dive bar distorted and dopplered around me.]

[Thoughts: "Hell, no, I haven't seen Lars since that chance meeting in '96, we were never that close, he...he...he..." I called Col and got more details, and said I didn't think I was going to go, but I'd call her in a half-hour or so to verify. I sat and spun for a while longer, then went back in the bar, told Violet what was going on. She said, "I think you should go," and I said I thought maybe I should, too, and caught a cab home.]

[The scene at home is tangential to this story: John was having a birthday party. I tried to participate for a bit, got sympathy from some of our mutual friends, took a nap after indulging in some tears, then got it together (including assembling a suit; I had no idea what form this memorial would take, but had an idea that Lars, who was voted Best Dressed Male of my high school class, would appreciate some effort) and was picked up at 2 a.m. (which immediately Sprang Forward to 3 a.m.) by Col and Frank in their eminently lesbian mini-SUV and we drove to L.A.]

[Catching some sleep in the back of the Jeep. Giving in to the drive-thru Starbucks in Buttonwillow. The draw-jopping beauty of the Grapevine and northern L.A. County in spring leading to the usual, Joni Mitchell anticlimax of the new, tacky sprawl of the Santa Clarita Valley and the old, polluted sprawl of the San Fernando Valley. Driving around downtown in search of breakfast, finally ending up at a Denny's in Col's old stomping grounds near USC. (Literally "stomping," as Col was in the band...) Still having time to kill, so driving out to Santa Monica, then taking the coast highway as far as Sunset, then driving back inland via the tensely exclusive climes of Pac Palisades, Bel-Air, Brentwood, Westwood, Beverly Hills, and West Hollywood. Your usual nobody-walks-in-L.A. travelogue, all from the safe confines of the LesboJeep. Lars comes up in conversation from time to time, but mostly we're just talking about this-and-that.]

[Finally, it was noon, and we could go into the Fairfax District restaurant where it turned out a relaxed, Hawaiian-themed party was planned. Lars loved Hawaii, and that's where the ashes are going. The suit remained on hangers in the Jeep, but, since I traveled in the same charcoal, long-sleeved BanRep shirt, jeans, and black shoes I wore out w/Violet, I was still out of place among these tanned Westside fags in their finest Hilo Hattie's. Ah, well, Col and Frank, stereotypically plus-sized dykes in flannel, were out of place, too, and it made it even more obvious that we drove all night from San Francisco to be here.]

[This realization, and how selfish it sounds, is a recurrent theme for this whole episode. Lars wasn't the most introspective fellow, and would no doubt have been surprised to know that Colleen and I made this much of an effort to be at this thing. He hadn't called Col in something like four years, and I've already detailed how remote his and my relationship had been. No external evidence indicates that he gave either of us a thought for a very long time. We knew no one at this gathering. Funerary rituals are always for the survivors, I guess, but it was more obvious than usual this time 'round that Col and I were doing this to banish our own demons, not to recognize in any authentic way the Lars that, for example, everyone else at this party knew and loved.]

[We stayed less than two hours. I had a margarita. There were free Mexi-munchies, a picture area, a guestbook where one could write a last message, and a couple of speeches. One really hit hard: there was this stunning blond English guy (Phil) who was exactly the type Lars had originally primed me to appreciate. He stood and spun off a paragraph of Alexander Pope's that so summed up the Lars that I remembered that I had to excuse myself and go to the men's room a second time for a fifteen-second session of shocked weeping. I went back, complimented Phil on his insight, signed the book with some of the things I'd always wanted to say to Lars (suitably couched because I think it's going to end up with his mother), and asked the wimmin if we could get the hell out of there.]

[The mostly uneventful trip back was not without cheer. We saw what was unmistakably Diane Keaton in a white turtleneck driving a black Range Rover in Beverly Hills. I even amused C. and F. with my interpretation of the Steps "Tragedy" dance when the Bee Gee's original version came up on their car stereo. I was home by 9 p.m. We think of L.A. as so far away in space and spirit, but I was here, there, and back again (but mostly in between) in one 24 hour span. Weird.]

[Even more weird: because of our circumstances but also profoundly because of the way he was, this guy will always be more symbol than reality to me. The death of anyone in his 30s always feels wrong, of course, and the severance of whatever real links there were between Lars and his real family and friends is a sad thing. But I'm left, in a very self-absorbed way, trying to understand what meaning, if any, his real death has to his symbolic significance. To me, not to put to fine a selfish point on it.]

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