read part one

Vincent had been my "bad boy" boyfriend. My mother did not care for him. His hair was too long, he wore Army jackets and black combat boots. He is the guy who's responsible for my fetish for guys in white undershirts and faded jeans. He was sullen, if he wanted to keep you away, and as sweet and affectionate as a child if he loved you.

We met at the University pool hall when we were 14 at the end of our freshman year. He was at least six feet tall, with golden blonde hair and red, full lips. He was a fantastic flirt. He teased me as he tried to teach me to hold a stick properly. I was so attracted to him and so shocked that he was interested in me, a little goody-two-shoes-hippie-girl. I knew there had to be a catch.

The catch was that I had to pass all of his loyalty tests. That very night he told me all his fucked up ideas, I think he even mentioned that he'd considered suicide, to see if I would run. I didn't, although I also wasn't that impressed. I knew it was a test and that his real problem was that he was just an insecure boy trying to sound dark and tough. Well, that's what I thought then. There was probably more truth in that than I realized.

But somehow, through my honesty I suppose (I told him exactly what I thought of him), our midnight phone conversations, and our complete inability to keep our hands off of each other, we got together. At a Pink Floyd laser light show, no less. The whole thing was very fourteen--there were ridiculous arguments (all started by me), obsessiveness (again, lots of it from me), and unrealistic expectations (that would be from me).

Still, it was the first time I'd ever had a strong emotional and physical relationship with a man. Although we never slept together, and damn if that wasn't a miracle, Vincent was my first lover. A year after we broke up I lost my virginity to a guy I liked well enough, but that sex was never as good as making out with Vincent on the grass after school up at Council Crest.

After Kim found me in the doorway she held me for a while and just let me cry. I was still in shock, but really did want to enjoy the rest of the reunion. I pulled myself together, fixed my face, and headed back to the bar. I found one of our old friends, Jeff, who told me what happened.

Vincent had been on the streets. I knew this. I found out last summer, through another friend, Sam, who also told me Vincent had been in the hospital. I don't know if Sam told me he was sick, but I assumed it was all because of drugs. Now, I'm not sure why that made a difference, but believing that made me reluctant to contact Vincent. I wasn't sure who and what I would find, if he'd want to see me or if I'd just be an intrusion in his life. If someone had told me that he was bipolar, I'm not sure I would have done anything differently. I also thought living on the streets might be some big Fuck You to society at large, something I would expect from him. Jeff told me hikers had found him, he had been cremated and there was a memorial service at the coast where his parents now live. He didn't tell me what they'd done with his ashes.

I knew Vincent was writing for the local homeless community newspaper. I'd seen about homeless kids who refuse to help themselves last November, which was very Vincent. Intolerant of laziness and ambivalence, even though those were his worst chacacter flaws. After seeing that article, I assumed he was fine and that I would run into him anytime, as soon as it was meant to be. That's how it had always gone before, I told myself. But that wasn't really true.

Of course, being young teenagers, our relationship was short-lived. By the time our sophomore year started it had run its course. I was too uptight, he didn't know what to do with me, his best friend hated me, and I was more interested in going to dances and joining Save The World groups than sitting around with Vincent and analyzing (judging) the universe at large. A few days after we broke up he was chasing after a girl that looked like me, even had my name I think, but wore thick black eyeliner and sulked. I was devastated. A few months after that, Vincent transferred to the alternative high school.

We saw each other sporadically after that. Like I said, I would be somewhere, usually in his neighborhood, writing in some trendy coffee shop, and I would get this feeling and look up and he would be there. Or I'd be thinking about him, intently, still feeling that pull, and call him out of the blue. He always met with me. We always talked for hours. He always confused me. I'm sure I confused him. We didn't know why we were still talking to each other, why there was still this attraction. We never acted on it. Given our ranging hormones of the time, I don't really know why. I suppose we knew we wouldn't be able to handle it.

The last time I saw Vincent was about four years ago. I had just been married. Portland was in the middle of a winter storm and my office was closed because their power was out. I don't remember why I was thinking about him. Perhaps the permanence of my stable and happy marriage was settling in and I wondered if I was losing that dark, obsessive side of myself, the part that made life exciting. (Even though I knew by then that chaos was not romantic, I still has some rebel to settle.) I called his parents' house, hoping they'd know where he was. He answered. He'd just come home from the Navy. I couldn't believe he had been in the Navy.

We met at a Starbucks. He was lost. Naturally, he'd hated the Navy. I didn't recognize the vacant look in his eyes. He wasn't the Vincent I'd known. He was clearly uncomfortable around me. We talked, but eventually we ran out of things to say. I was distressed. We said goodbye, neither of us making any promises to see each other again.

It's very difficult to accept that someone who hasn't been a regular part of your life for almost 15 years is dead, that you'll never see them again. I still think that I've just found him, not that I've found out he's dead. I emailed the homeless newspaper where he'd been volunteering (his name was still on their staff list) and asked for any of his writing, or to speak to someone who'd known him recently. I need to know. I need to know how someone writes an article about how street kids need to get their shit together and six months later hangs himself in a park, less than a mile from where he grew up, where he still had friends who cared for him.

I need to know if there's anything I could have done. I know everyone will tell me there wasn't. He was sick. Jeff and Sam assured me they'd all tried, everyone had tried. They said when he was manic he was violent and belligerent. I don't know what I would have done if I'd found that. But I would rather have tried and failed miserably than not tried at all. Really, I wish I'd apologized for all the stupid things I said to him when we were kids. I wish I'd told him that even though I was skeptical at the time, he really was right about people, and he was right about me, and that it took me 15 years, but I figured it out.

I'm lucky that people are being supportive right now. Most of the people in my life have never heard of Vincent. A, especially, is being understanding and leaving me alone in my black funk. Somehow I'll need to find closure. I think I'll have to do some more traveling back in time before I can move forward.

- august 14