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.

I was sitting in the front window of a coffee shop when I was pulled from my book by honking. A car was stopped in the street and everyone behind the car was honking. I saw it was Bones sitting behind the wheel of his Capris. I went out there. His car stopped and wasn’t turning over. All the honking and commotion was causing him to have a panic attack. I got a few folks together and we pushed his car to the side.

I hated to see Bones like this, lost and scared. He was shaking and was having trouble catching his breath. He was diagnosed with emphysema about a year ago and while he cut down on his smoking he never stopped. Truth be told, he is 80 plus years old and he isn’t going to quit smoking.

I just spoke of normal things while we waited for the tow truck. I know about panic attacks, as long as someone speaks of everyday things they go away. He started to relax a little; the initial fear of causing the disturbance was done. He breathing became normal, well as normal as it was going to be. I hadn’t seen him in a long time. I didn’t frequent that coffee bar where we first met. He asked about K- and about the house I bought.

I had forgotten that he was somewhat involved in the purchase of that house. When I put an offer in on the house I’m living in now I told him about it. I was nervous because they could still show the house while my offer was being considered. I had a fear someone would but in a higher offer. The realtor called me a couple days later and asked if I knew what had happened to the “For Sale” signs that were in front of the house and at the bottom of the street, I didn’t and hadn’t thought anymore of it. It occurred to me after the fact that Bones had stolen them all. “It’s bullshit they are still showin’ that house.” He told me after I asked him about it. He also called from the backyard of the house about trees that needed to be trimmed. “How’d you get in the backyard, the gate is locked?” I asked, remembering that even realtor didn’t have a key for it. He ignored the question as he gave me the low down on his impressions of the backyard “You’re gonna have to do something about them trees… and you’ll probably need a new lock on the gate” he added.

That conversation seemed like a long time ago and he looked older and worn out. After the tow truck came, I drove him to his apartment. I offered to pick him up later to get his car but he said his grandson would take him.

Bones and I were sitting around the coffee shop, not doing much of anything.

Bones: "My kid aint spoke to me in 30 years" Bones began.

Midwest: "That seems kind of extreme, maybe he needs to get over whatever his problem with you is."

Bones: "Nah...I hit him around too many times, he got the right to not talk to me"

There really isn't much to be said after that. He looked genuinely sad. I don't think I'd ever seen remorse in his face. I had a mental picture of him in his prime; thin, wirey and violent- straight razor in his sock, which he still carries. I could imagine all the damage he had done yet all I could see before me was a thin old man, with faded tattoos, staring at his hands, regretting that he hit his son one too many times. He was no longer interested or able to hide the regrets and the loneliness.

Midwest: "The best thing he can do for himselddf is get over it"

Bones: "There are somethings you can never make right, that's just how that is, anyone tell you differently is lying or never did the things I done."

I no longer saw the old man who acquaintance, but a young punk who would have killed me over $20 or a misunderstanding. Bones was right, he should have died, he should never have lived past his prime. His hell is being as feeble and weak as the people he preyed upon.

Here's an actual conversation I had with Bones awhile back.


“Misplaced, I was married to the ugliest white woman in the midwest. Her name was Hatchet Mary. She was called Hatchet Mary because she always carried an axe with her. She saved my ass many times. Whenever some guy wanted to beat the shit out of me because my crocodile mouth was always biting off my than by blue bird ass could handle she would knock over a bar stool and start swinging that ax. She chased more than one man out of the bar. But man believe me when I tell you she was ugly.”

...and with no segue or warning he said, “It was a damn shame when they legalized abortion, me a Mary had quiet a little business going”

The last line startled me. "Damn, Bones you need to warn a guy before you roll there."

He just cackled like an old woman. "Life comes at you like that sometimes"

Bones was a cantankerous old man, but somehow we became friends. I always enjoyed his company. We would run into eachother at this coffee bar almost every day and would have a chat and a cup of pretty crappy coffee.

I'm not certain how old he was, when I asked he'd say, "older than dirt" but he was probably in his late 70's. His real name was Ray but everyone called him Bones.
"It's not because I'm skinny," he's explain "it's because I used to play dice."
He'd make a one handed gesture of shaking dice, which looked unsettlingly like masturbation. Apparently playing dice was all the rage on Race street back in the day. He came from a different time and place and I found his stories fascinating.

The first time I met Bones was in the coffee bar. I sat down at a table with some friends and began complaining about something, probably a woman. I was going on and on about how I had been done wrong when this angry voice from the table behind me yelled,

"Get off the cross, motherfucker, we need the wood"

That was the start of a beautiful friendship.