It occurred to me that I’ve been writing about my friend Bones for some time and that I never finished his story
I had been away from the coffee house gang for quite awhile. I didn’t feel bad about it, I felt that I was in a rut- hanging out with the same people- no one’s lives moving forward, other interests etc. But I probably hadn’t seen Bones since his car broke down outside the coffee shop several months before and D.P. well before that.
I had heard through the grapevine that Bones’ emphysema was getting the better of him. He was spending a fair amount of time in the hospital. The drawing of breath and not getting anything looks to be torture.
Bones who had always valued his independent ways, was slowly and then very quickly losing his independents. It was decided, not by him, that he needed to give up his apartment, his independent living, his car and probably his switch-blade and move to a ‘home’. From what I gathered he was somewhat resigned to this fact and had become very tired- which should have been a red flag to anyone who knew him. He signed over the title of his car to a mutual friend with limited resources. He drove from the ‘home’ to his apartment to finish up any final business he had, while he was in his apartment he shot himself in the head.
D.P. called me to let me know what had happened. My last run in with the coffee house gang was around Bone’s casket. Bones was wearing a sweater with a scene depicting a couple skiing. It seemed like a cruel joke.