For those of you that don't know, which at this point is very few people, my roommate, Badger/Trolltruck, died in a motorcycle wreck yesterday. I'd been numb, I'd gone to work and made food and so on, it was just overwhelming and unreal, until his sister called to ask us to help her move his stuff out.
I can think about not missing him. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, though that may be just the stupid optimism of someone who's never lost anyone close. But these concrete things bring him back. The christmas decorations that he put up. Bah humbug scrooge made fun of him, but he loves Christmas. I'll probably have to spike Christmas ornaments in the front yard or he'll haunt me like Jacob Marley. Or the plates from italy that his parents brought back when he was born. They're not microwave-safe, so I never eat off them. Or the "couch" that's the seat from one of his trucks.
Or his room. His stupid sword, the drum he always takes to drum circles, the papers and stuff on his dresser, the computers, the huge pile of blue clothes. Stuffwise, it's such a little pile. One truckload, really. Less if you don't count the clothes.
Verison Wireless called for him. Apparently, he hadn't paid his bill recently. "I'm sorry, he's dead," I said. "Oh. Well, is anybody else using his phone?" "Well, it might be at the morgue, I really don't know."
I bought a new album for him, it's "jungle drums," a percussion Christmas collection. Cool stuff. Unfortunately, I never got to see him Saturday, so I left it on my table. I came into his room Sunday to play it at him, and it took me a good six hours to figure out why he was gone. I bought him a lot of stuff, actually. I had a big pile of Christmas presents for him. I've been under the impression that he didn't have enough stuff, and was trying to remedy that.
And if I die
before I wake,
I pray Goodwill
my stuff to take