Lamenting Hot Dog

My old best friend just died. Henry, Hank – my friend, I will miss you even though it’s been 30 years since we really knew each other. Back then we were “two lost souls living in a fish bowl” that neither of us wanted but had to make the most of in order to find out who we were. So we connected as rebels to work it out, daring the law on the back of your moped and “barking at the moon” with Ozzy and playing endless games of 8-ball and drinking endless bottles of beer together because – it’s what we could do to make it all seem like it might be ok if we just had fun and people liked us and we could make the reality go away with a pipe hit or a shot or an experience that was better than all those “live by the rules” kind of people.

And we were wrong. And I am so sad. And I regret.

I always admired you, Hank. You beat me (barely) in the 5th grade high jump competition and I always felt like you could jump at least one inch higher than me in everything that mattered at the time. In girls. In jokes. In ambition. Neither one of us were particularly book smart but you were a book smarter than me. You were more popular. Had better hair. Were more fun. And so I always strove to keep up with you. But what I most loved about you, Hank, was that I always knew I could be myself with you. And I bet most people who loved you to the end felt the same way.

We tried to live out the words of our favorite song together on those high-school moped rides – “You’ve Got Another Thing Coming” by Judas Priest. Remember them? “One life – I’m gonna live it up! I’m takin’ flight I say I’ll never get enough! Stand tall, I’m young and kinda proud! I’m on top as long as the music’s loud.” Yep, we were. Until we weren’t.

I know your later friends called you “Hot Dog” and from a distance I thought that fit you so well because I remember when we used to live off pennies a day in college and you spent yours at 7-11 buying two “dogs” for a dollar and proclaiming them the best deal in Austin. Hot dogs and bong hits and beers and music were our daily fare together and they worked… until they didn’t. And we went different directions. And we knew it. And we parted and stayed parted ever since, despite my hope we could mend things someday. And now, much to my sadness, we can’t.

And I will live with that regret for the rest of my days.

I did not and could not love you to the end. And that’s the extra pain. Over the years since we parted, I have thought about you so much and wished we could rebuild from the time of our separation without the shame that ultimately divided us. It didn’t have to be this way, and I know it and maybe you do too now. I don’t know. Were we somehow in a competition that neither one of us could handle? Were the words that could have been said to repair somehow too costly for that humble work? Was my faith intimidating or too worthy of judgment that you couldn’t hear it, or was I just that self-righteous and drove you away? If so, I’m sorry my old friend. Because I never stopped loving you and the way you made me feel like I belonged in a world where I didn’t feel I did. And I am quite confident you leave a long line of true friends who feel that same loss today.

I have learned over the years—in my own losses and in walking with others through grief and addiction—that pain rarely stays still. If it is not faced, it often hides behind anger, distance, substances, bravado, or silence. Two boys once thought beer and noise could outrun sorrow. We were not the first to believe it, and we will not be the last. These days I spend part of my life helping others navigate grief, shame, and the traps we once thought were freedom. But I am never ok with the shock of more loss of people I love. It just, plainly, sucks.

I will miss you forever, Hank, because I will love you forever. Godspeed. Godspeed. Stay cool, Hot Dog. Stay cool, Hank.

And rest in peace.

Jay