DIED 2018
IN THE MONTHS IMMEDIATELY following her mother’s death, my pal from East Texas really got clobbered. One of her oldest friends committed suicide; another, a powerhouse who’d been a speechwriter for Ann Richards, was treated successfully for cancer—then died. Next came an even lower blow. A guy she saw every day, another East Texan, a work friend who ended up becoming much more.
He was a wild child, no doubt, but these days it was down to getting a little carried away at office parties. He was forty, with two kids and a job he loved. He would do anything for people he cared about, and he cared about everyone.
The guys got a house in the French Quarter for a bachelor party. Started with a long day of barhopping. Somebody knew somebody knew somebody who could get some coke. For old times’ sake. Three of them left the club and went back to the house. While one met the dealer in the front room, the wild child and the other guy waited out back. The exchange was made; the dealer left. Before he called in his friends to get started, the guy took a little taste. Whoa. Nuh-uh. He ran out the front door and down the street to catch the dealer before he got away. Left the baggie on the counter.
By the time he got back, there were two bodies on the floor. Thirteen hours later, the other guy woke up from his coma. The wild child never did. My friend went to New Orleans to say goodbye. The doctor told her fentanyl—so much cheaper to fill a baggie with than cocaine—causes fifteen deaths every month at that hospital alone.
How do you say stop, enough?
Right. You can’t.