No one should die before they're 30

I don't know what to do with this essay. So I'm putting it here. It's a bummer.

When Robby called me today to tell me that Matt Chance was killed in a skiing accident over the weekend, I had nothing intelligent to say. I’m pretty sure I said “that’s terrible” at least a half a dozen times, “wow,” half as many again, and one “Jesus Christ.” Beyond the shock of finding out one of my best friends from elementary school had died, and in his twenties, there was the simple fact that I hadn’t talked to Matt in ages, and so there was no trite rejoinder to anything Robby said such as, “But I just talked to him last week,” or “We had plans to out drinking on Friday.” Matt moved to Switzerland a couple years back, but, really, the fact that we went to different middle schools and high schools because his family moved a town over meant we weren’t seeing much of each other past the age of 15 or so.

During the third and fourth grade, Matt, Robby, and I considered ourselves “the three amigos,” mostly because we were nine and couldn’t think of anything smarter. I doubt, too, that that name was in any great prevalence beyond our trio, but we took quite a bit of pride in being three best friends. And when fifth grade was coming up, and it was announced that they would be splitting our class into two, we were well aware that they would split up the three amigos. And even though Robby may have landed himself in the room with the “cooler” teacher, Matt and I were paired together, and considered ourselves in charge of that class. We sat in the back, feet on our desks, spitting sunflower seeds into a trash can. Coolest fucking ten-year olds ever.

But then, after the fifth grade, Matt’s family moved to Danville, about ten miles and an eternity away when you’re in middle school. Hanging out became a bit less frequent, but we tried to make it count all the more, and we’d switch off houses for sleepovers for maximum time per visit. When we were at my house, that usually meant, in the late evenings, trying to watch scrambled softcore movies to see if we could catch a glimpse of a nipple, with one eye on the kitchen where my dad was doing dishes, to see if we were about to get caught. I’m still not sure, to this day, if we actually ever saw a nipple, but we definitely convinced ourselves we did, and we definitely convinced ourselves it was awesome.

That’s also when Matt got a Sega Genesis, which I wasn’t allowed to have, and he knew the Sonic start code, and, more importantly, the Mortal Kombat blood code. With his little brother Greg squealing “I wanna play!” behind us, Matt and I weren’t particularly good at many of these games, but we knew the codes. That made us the best at these games.

Because playing Sega and horse in the driveway only lasted for so long, the big adventure during our hanging out was the trip to the 7-11 and baseball card shop if we were at my house, and the grocery store and the other baseball card shop if we were at Matt’s. The destination of these trips was mostly arbitrary: we only knew a limited number of places existed at that age, and most of them centered around baseball cards and candy. The real joy of these excursions was the walk to and from: it was the time Matt and I were away from the prying ears of parents or siblings, and could say whatever we wanted. The topics of conversation were quite varied on the walk to—we would talk about girls, mostly in the abstract, as we were too young to actually talk to them, we would talk about what we were going to do and be in the future, we would talk about, sometimes, death and what happened after. It also was our chance to try out any new swear words or dirty phrases we had picked up, never actually really knowing what they meant, but knowing that we weren’t supposed to use them. The walk from was usually far more mundane—I would wonder how one single Nerd from the left side of the box got intermingled with the other flavor on the other side of the box, Matt might see how fast he could eat his fun dip, and we’d go over who got what baseball cards, and if we got any inserts or cool players. The day one of us landed an Ozzie Canseco was epic.

The walk was easily the best part of any sleepover trip, and they were always better at Matt’s house. The walk was a little longer, and was primarily through residential areas, unlike at my house, where we’d cut behind a hospital to get to downtown quicker. We felt like real adults that could take care of ourselves, merely because we were holding a conversation and had a place to go. We had the option of walking as quickly or as slowly as we wanted (we always chose slowly; why rush good conversation?), and got to choose our own route to and from the store. The world is a wonderful place when you’re 11, and your best friend and you are Getting Things Done.

Over time, Matt and I saw each other less and less—I got most of my updates through Robby, who played on a baseball team with him and then went to college with him, as well. But fairly regularly, even weekly, I think about when we would have sleepovers, and the walks that we took. Those conversations, if you can even call them that, were sometimes meaningful, oftentimes ridiculous, most times sophomoric, and always the best part of my day.

One night when we were about 12, as I was lying on Matt’s bedroom floor in my sleeping bag, he and I had a talk about whether or not God exists. He was raised Catholic, I wasn’t raised in any religion, and neither of us were sure one way or another if there was a God. So he and I gave God a chance: we said that He had something like a minute to give us a sign that He existed. The minute came and went without the earth moving or a voice commanding, but, unfortunately, that didn’t help us figure anything out. We concluded, that night at least, that maybe there was a God, and He didn’t want to give us a sign, because that would be cheating, or he did give us a sign and we didn’t catch it. The matter was left unresolved.

I still don’t know if there’s a God or not, but at times like this, I hope as hard as I can that God does exist, and that Matt’s life is continuing. And I hope as hard as I can that someday down the line, I can meet up with him again and we can take another walk. Or play horse. Or Sonic. I don’t care what we do, really. I just want to see my friend again.