Jeremiah and I shared similar political views and we created a friendship based on mutual admiration of each other’s talents.  He was an excellent writer and he would sometimes ask me to proofread his pieces; I also enjoy writing and I would sometimes compose things based on his suggestions.  We both loved music and I would invite him to hang out with me at karaoke bars.  He was always encouraging and would suggest songs for me to sing when I got tired of my regular repertoire.  He particularly liked it when I would sing "Crimson and Clover." 

He was a very intriguing character.  He wrote under a pseudonym and that was the name he used on his social networking pages.  He was tattooed and pierced and told stories of times that he’d been stabbed or been involved in biker fights.  But he was a sweet and tender father to his daughter.  Halloween was his favorite holiday, second only to his birthday, which he thought should be a nationally celebrated event.  He was possibly atheist, but at least agnostic.  His writing and musical tastes ran to dark fantasy and death metal, but he could pull off a great George Thorogood and loved to sing Violent Femmes.  We also shared an unlikely love of They Might Be Giants.

I planned his thirtieth birthday party and it was a huge success.  I remember when his mother died and I listened for hours as he told me all about her and how wonderful she was.  When I went through a bad breakup Jeremiah would come to the bar and, when I started getting a little too drunk, he would walk me home.  He made sure I got in the house and locked the door behind me.  He was the only one who showed up to help me when I moved.  When I fell in love with my husband and we got married in Vegas, Jeremiah was very happy for us and helped me find a place to have a local ceremony.

 Jeremiah and I both held a deep respect for beauty.  He would share with me pictures he took or text me to say “Look at the moon!”  I enjoyed being one of his friends and I knew I could count on him for anything.  He got a new job and also was granted primary custody of his daughter, so our nights out diminished and so did our communication with one another. 

The last time I saw Jeremiah was at a karaoke bar, not surprisingly.  I can’t really remember when it was, but it was cold out.  We had a great time and I hugged him when I left and told him that I loved him.  He said he loved me, too. 

In November of last year, I got a message from someone I didn’t know on Facebook that said, “I’m a friend of Jeremiah’s.  One of the last conversations we had he mentioned you.  You were special to him so I wanted to make sure you knew that he’d passed away.”  He listed his phone number and I texted him right away to say I didn’t think his joke was very fucking funny.  Jeremiah was only 34, there was no way he could be dead.  He called me right away and told me he wasn’t joking, but he really wished he was.  Jeremiah had died of a heart attack.

I was in my car at the time and pulled over to cry.  My son (12) was with me and he tried to comfort me.  I spent the next few days watching his Facebook page for details about services.  I read in a book when I was younger that you should always try to touch the person because it will help you heal.  I touched Jeremiah’s hand when we arrived at the funeral and I wish against wish I hadn’t.  It was hard and felt like wax; nothing like the warm hand that would squeeze my shoulder when I had a particularly difficult customer on the line. 

The church was packed for the service and it was very religious, considering Jeremiah’s beliefs… or lack thereof, as the case may be.  Afterwards, the preacher invited all of Jeremiah’s friends to come forward and be saved from our sinful ways.  I thought it was tacky and offensive for them to imply that anyone who wasn’t a Christian wouldn’t see Jeremiah on the other side, or whatever version of afterlife they believe in.  But they did play a few songs that Jeremiah requested be played in this situation (of course he had already planned for this) and they gave us two poems he had written, one for his mother and one for his father. 

I watched his Facebook page daily for a while.  It’s been taken down now, and I miss that connection.  A lot of us would post random memories or pieces of his writing as we found them.  One friend said he found, in his phone, an ominous text reply from the night before Jeremiah died.  The friend had asked “Are you there yet?”  And Jeremiah said, “I’m always somewhere.”