Chapter 10

Messenger

Stan and I reconnected on Facebook shortly after Xander was born. He was the ultimate Facebook friend—liking photos, always posting supportive comments. He had moved to New Orleans a few years earlier. I was in Lafayette for a marketing conference, and the organizers took us to Prejean’s for dinner. I posted a picture of the gumbo, which was excellent.

Stan immediately liked it but followed up with a comment: “The gumbo at Mother’s is better. Next time you’re in New Orleans, I’ll take you.”

And he meant it.

Our conversations tended to be random and sporadic. But he loved martial arts. He loved the old Kung Fu movies from the 1970s and the action flicks from the 1980s. Anytime I posted something about martial arts, whether it was winning a trophy at a tournament or getting promoted, he was the first one to respond.

I posted a picture when I was promoted to black belt in taekwondo. Stan almost immediately DM’ed me.

Stan: You just got your black belt?

Calvin: Yeah, only took 42 years.

Stan: Congrats man, that’s huge. Bucket list thing?

Calvin: Yeah

Stan: You going to keep going, or are you done?

Calvin: Still working on the black sash in Kung Fu. Maybe 2 more years. I’ll stick with TKD while Xander is doing it.

Stan: Good for you. Congrats.

Another time, I posted a picture of Jared on his birthday. Stan remembered him from back in high school.

Stan: Happy Birthday to your brother. How’s he doing?

Calvin: Thanks, man. He’s doing OK, all things considered. He was just diagnosed with renal failure last year. He’s going to dialysis now.

Stan: Oh man, that sucks. Sorry to hear that. How old is he?

Calvin: He just turned 37. That’s not too bad considering the doctors didn’t think he would make it to 20.

Stan: That’s awesome. I wish my son Sean was alive at 37.

Calvin: Oh shit. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know that you lost a child

Stan: Thanks. It was a long time ago. He would have been our second. I know it must have sucked many times for you and your family with all the crap your brother was going through. But I’m jealous.

Calvin: We just lost a child a few years ago. Baby had Trisomy 18. Almost certainly would have miscarried or stillborn, so we terminated. Not exactly the same thing, I know. But we were heartbroken. I can only imagine how terrible it was for you. Nothing worse than losing a child. You have my deepest sympathies.

Stan: Trisomy 13 was our issue. Didn’t know until almost the end. We had the full burial and everything. Tough times. We are weird like that. I apologize for bringing it up. I rarely talk about it.

Calvin: No, not at all. Thank you for sharing. You never really know what people have gone through.

Stan: Sorry on the Trisomy 18. I don’t know what that is, but can only imagine. But at least you have Xander.

Calvin: You know how it is…you’re thankful for the ones you have, but you always miss the ones who aren’t there.

Stan: My other kids all know that Sean is the best. Fyi, I just went down and hugged my kids like 10 minutes ago. Please do the same with Xander.

We went on like this for a while. These types of conversations were not uncommon. We had many long Facebook chats about very serious things. The funny thing is, as I mentioned, Stan and I were not close in high school. Only on social media. Only as adults. I got to know him so much better in those fifteen years on Facebook than I did during the seven years of school we had together.

We had another group therapy session when my cat, Goblin, died. I had her for nineteen years, and I was devastated. I kept her ashes. Stan had done the same with his dog, Bailey.

Stan: Sorry for your loss. I had my dog cremated 10+ years ago, she is still kicking back with me every day in my office. Literally four feet away from me right now.

Calvin: It will be about the same here. Goblin used to enjoy sitting on my desk while I worked, so I will keep her there where she liked to be.

Stan: I have Bailey right next to me all the time.

Calvin: And I’ve instructed my wife to have her ashes buried with me

Stan: Um, I thought that was a given. And I am serious about that. We still talk about Bailey all the time.

Stan was a friend who “gets it”. He got me.

But don’t get me wrong. Not all our conversations were that heavy.

Stan: Just so we are on the same page, the crane kick is illegal, right?

Calvin: It’s basically just a jumping front snap kick to the face.

Stan: So totally illegal, right?

Calvin: Depends on the tournament.

Stan: My other karate man told me it was completely illegal.

Calvin: Depends on the rules. It may be legal as long as you hit with enough control.

Stan: Hmm. My last black belt buddy told me there are no rules.

Calvin: There are definitely rules. Full contact to the face is generally legal in TKD, as long as you don’t draw blood.

Stan: The under-18 all-valley karate tournament banned full face kicks back in ‘83

Calvin: In all seriousness, they usually do not allow full face contact in the under-18 divisions. But for adults, often…Shit, I got kicked in the face. I was bleeding all over the place.

Stan: I thought you said it was only legal if you don’t draw blood?

Calvin: Depends on the judges.

I finally made it down to New Orleans about a year later. I had given Stan a heads-up a few months before that I would be coming to town, but then the schedule changed kind of last minute and I forgot to tell him.

I was supposed to join some colleagues for dinner that night, but they bailed on me. I was kind of pissed off about it. It was already after 8 p.m. on a work night, so I figured Stan wouldn’t be able to meet up anyway, but I should at least give him a call.

“I’ll be there in thirty minutes,” he said.

When he arrived, I almost didn’t recognize him. He never shared current photos of himself on Facebook. Stan had gained a lot of weight. I mean, a lot of weight. He was skinny in high school, and now he was easily 300 pounds. I’m not exaggerating. He told me he was over 300 pounds.

We got some gumbo at Mother’s just before closing and then hit a bunch of bars on and around Bourbon Street. It had been a long time since I had been on a bar crawl. Honestly, I had a great time.

We sat in one of the upstairs bars, overlooking the street below, and watched the young people being young people. On the street. In the bar.

“If you want to chat up any of these chicks, let me know,” he said.

“No, that’s alright man.”

“Hey, it’s cool. I know you’re married. I am, too. It’s just for fun.”

And he was serious. Stan could walk up to anyone and start a conversation. He could just sit down at their table, or beckon them over to our table, and they would come. He’d start chatting with smoking-hot twenty-somethings, and they’d be laughing and smiling.

He wasn’t trying to win them over—he was just honing his social skills and enjoying the give-and-take of good conversation. And when the conversation had run its course, it was, like, thanks for the laughs and see you later. Like he was going fishing and throwing his catches back. He was magnetic.

This was nothing new. Stan was like this in high school, too. I recall this one dance junior year. I was crushing on this sophomore girl named Gina. Stan came over and was like, “Who are you looking at?”

“Gina,” I said.

“Why don’t you ask her to dance?”

“I don’t really know her.”

“I know her. I’ll break the ice for you, if you want.”

I was hesitant, but I took him up on his offer.

“Wait here,” he said. One minute later, he was walking this girl over to me and handing her off. Only problem was, it was the wrong Gina. There were two Ginas (a lot of Italians in West Fairfield). They were friends, and they were standing right next to each other. But this Gina was cute, so I thought, why not? And we had a nice slow dance to “Heaven” by Bryan Adams. When the song was over, she thanked me for a nice dance and went back to her friends.

“So? How’d it go?” Stan asked.

“Yeah, that was cool. But I actually meant the other Gina,” I said.

“Oh shit! Sorry about that.”

“No, it’s all good, man.”

“No, no, no! Just wait here.” And he walked over to the other Gina, and one minute later, I was dancing with her to “Faithfully”!

I have no doubt if I had wanted to take one of those college chicks back to my hotel room, Stan could have made it happen. Effortlessly.

So, after Stan had finished his playful dance of words with all the pretty co-eds in the bar, we started talking about the old days.

“Remember that time Enrique whipped out that butterfly knife?” he asked. This was when Stan was dating Anna. She had recently broken up with Enrique before she started dating him, and Rico didn’t take it well.

“Yeah, that was fucked up.” I don’t think Rico had any intention of hurting Stan. He just wanted to scare him.

“And he was putting those razor blades in his mouth and threatening to swallow them.” Again, I don’t think Rico had any serious intention to harm himself. It was more for show.

“Yeah, I remember. We finally got them away from him and threw them in those piles of leaves. But that motherfucker found them!!”

“I was thirteen, man,” he pointed out, with a solemn look on his face that caught me by surprise. “That was so wrong.”

“Rico was fucked up.” Not a clinical opinion—just my subjective evaluation.

“Fuck that guy,” said Stan. “I was so scared that night. I still have nightmares about it.” I remember that night well, but I think I was just used to Enrique’s bullshit. It didn’t phase me that much.

“I had no idea that night affected you that badly.”

“Dude, I was traumatized. That was so messed up. I hate that asshole.” And Stan didn’t hate anyone.

“He’s not my favorite either,” I admitted.

Enrique had recently gotten married. None of us were invited to the wedding, which wasn't a surprise given that he was still out in California. But he did send pictures to Ben and Jake. He purposely excluded me. We always had some tension, but I wasn’t aware of any new transgressions since we made our last truce. I guess he decided we weren’t friends anymore, and I didn’t get the memo. Oh well.

I asked Stan if we could take a pic together. He declined. I think he was embarrassed about the weight. For me, I didn’t care. I was just happy to see my friend. It was the last time I ever did.

We kept in touch over Facebook over the years. Mostly, we talked about the kids. He was so proud of his kids. He was a great dad.

A few months before he died, I got a random call from him. By the time I saw it was him calling, he already hung up. This was odd, because we never called each other. We only did the Facebook Messenger thing. I thought maybe something was wrong, so I called him right back.

“Butt dial,” he said.

But we ended up talking for over an hour. His daughter had just gotten a full ride to the University of Tulsa.

“Softball?” I guessed. All his kids were great athletes.

“No, man. Academic!” He loved them playing sports, but he was so proud of her for being smart. All his kids were the apples of his eyes. He loved them without limit. And he was always happy to tell you about them.

Stan died of a sudden heart attack. Completely out of the blue, except for the fact that he was so overweight. It was a major factor.

I feel almost an imposter syndrome talking about his death. Like, who the hell am I to be claiming him as part of my grief? Compared to his kids? His wife? His death was an existential loss for them. Stan and I were just Facebook friends. But I can tell you, we were much closer Facebook friends than we were in person back in the day.

In the days following his death, many stories emerged. Stories that sounded very familiar. About how Stan always made time to like a post, to send a kind word, to reach out when someone was down. To offer help in a time of need.

He always made me feel like he was my #1 fan. Like he was watching everything I was doing. That he was following Xander’s every win and loss. And that made me feel special.

But he was doing it for everyone. And, y’know, that didn’t make me feel any less special.

The last message I got from him was about a week before he died.

Stan:

watching The Last Dragon. Still one of my favorite movies

I miss you, Stan.