It was a frigid afternoon in December when I called Hunter to meet me before his happy hour shift at the bar. For weeks I had been watching Jeb trying to work and the conundrum was that I was okay with his killing himself with alcohol, but I was not okay with his killing himself with alcohol AND work. One or the other, but not both. The amount of time it took him to get ready to work was growing little by little, but the recovery time upon returning home was increasing at an alarming rate.
Out of nowhere, Jeb decided to skip the morphine for a few days. That was disastrous on two levels. Physically he was unable to perform simple functions as easy. He wasn’t able to eat as the pain in his digestive system had returned with full vengeance. His back, legs, chest, and head all throbbed to different rhythms of torture at the same time.
Psychologically, the withdrawal was much more devastating. The morphine was successfully clouding the mind enough to provide a warm blanket which shielded the full reality of the daily steps leading to a very obvious eventuality. As I tend to be an extremely sensitive empathic person, I was able to go day by day without reading too many emotional waves beaconing from Jeb’s head. The most that I read came from Jeb’s frustration with himself or his failing strength (i.e. having me open a bottle or a package for him). This waveless calm disappeared in the absence of morphine. One afternoon of reading childhood ramblings, Jeb stopped reading and just stared at the sheet of paper before him.
This was not some ‘brief moment’ in passing or a glimmer of a faint presence. No. This was a full on hammer hitting, “Oh my god, I’m going to die very very soon,” epiphany that struck him with the swiftness of a moon-sized asteroid, and beamed from his head and hit me like an army of trumpets blowing in unison directly in front of my face.
It wasn’t like this was new information. Jeb avoided anything to make himself well. He never took any medication. His reasons varied depending on who he was talking to or what mind-fuck he wanted to play at the time, but his internal reason was he simply didn’t want to. Whenever he became ill or went to the hospital, he never took care of his body long enough for him to fully recover before diving head-first into his drinking/spinning life. So it wasn’t as if any of this was a surprise. Had he never taken the morphine, this bitch-slap would never have happened. But after a few weeks of happy pillow pleasure, any realization came as a surprisingly harsh blow. I suggested we get out of the house. The bar even. Anything.
Jeb went back on the morphine.
It was in that window that I had a chance to see all sides of my friend at once. He was a living Cubist painting with repetitive views showing different sides and different views showing the same side. It was all there: the worry, fear, frustration, the strength and fragility, the anger even. It was a lot to digest.
Hunter had gotten to the point where he could read me rather well. He reached the coffee house across the street from the bar and immediately greeted me with a hug. “You don’t look so good,” he said. “What’s going on?”
Straight to the point. I proceeded to ask how things were going with Jeb at work. I wanted to know if all the effort Jeb was going through was worth it. Was his work reflecting his condition?
“He’s doing fine. I haven’t noticed any change in his work… and you know I’m paying attention.”
“Ok. But what about everyone else at work? Are people noticing anything?”
“James, it’s a gay bar. Unless someone shirtless and ripped or wearing feathers, nobody really notices anything other than themselves.”
“Good point.”
“What’s this really about? Is Jeb getting bad off at home?”
THAT… was not the question to ask. The magic button was pushed and at that moment I went from the little Dutch boy holding his finger in a dam to the first victim of a major barrier collapse. I was crushed under the weight of the very sea I was trying to restrain.
Hunter found someone to cover his shift and we spent the evening talking, eating, and downing a few pints. Spinning was killing Jeb. But spinning was also his esophagus. The musical knowledge stored in his head was encyclopedic in function. I had regularly been downloading the newest songs from around the globe, each one with five to ten versions, and he would listen to each and every one… only to experiment with, and joyfully display the new beats, rhythms, and remixes to the Austin gay public.
I had never said a word about how Jeb lived. I left that up to Brian who did a better job of playing ‘bad cop’ to my ‘quiet enabling cop’. But there was a point where I had to admit that Jeb was not living the best last months he could possibly be living.
In a manner of odd synchronization, Jeb was across the street at the same time I was demonstrating my ‘turning into Jello’ routine at the coffee house. He was talking to his boss about possible options should he not be able to continue working a full week’s schedule.
The next day Jeb and I sat down for dinner and he presented me with the decision that was facing him. I answered off the top of my head.
“What the hell? Are you fucking kidding me?” I practically yelled in my best angry housewife tone of voice. “This has been horrific for me to watch. Granted, it’s not near as horrific as actually living through it… but still, that’s not the point. I’m watching you run yourself into the ground, literally, and for what? You live here, I feed you… what little you eat, you have no real expenses. You cannot be doing… THIS… to yourself. You don’t have all the time in the world, you know. I don’t understand why you want to spend it being miserable.”
To say that my ranting surprised Jeb would be a gross understatement. He looked blank. It was like I had just told him I was flying to Brazil for a sex-change operation so I could be a headlining Kylie Minogue impersonator in a bar outside Quebec City. He gave me the perfect “This is not what I was expecting… and I do not know how to respond to this” face.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Jeb, it’s not your place to apologize. This is your life, you can do whatever the fuck you want. I’m just along for the ride. If this is what you want, I will gladly shut up. I just think that you could be experiencing a much better life then what you have right now. Seventy-five percent of your life is spent getting ready or recovering from your work at the bar. I just want to know that this is worth it to you.”
It was a clouded dream set in a snow globe… held under water. We hadn’t been that emotionally honest and still in a long while, so there was an uncomfortable stagnate air in the apartment for a long beat.
“I want to watch something funny tonight.” With that, Jeb broke the thick awkward honesty spell which had gripped the room.
I’m not sure how much time had passed, but Jeb put in his notice and December 15th was to be his last official day although he would still be spinning once a month and special events. He walked out of the office… and we had a shot. I remember that evening well because in walked an older white gentleman with his younger Mexican boyfriend. The older man was all about Mexicans, Mexican food, Mexican culture, Mexican behavior and somehow this entitled him to Mexican jokes because he was fucking a Mexican boyfriend. I’m not sure how the conversation started but next thing I know I blurt out loudly, “Oh for fuck’s sake. The only reason Carlos Mancia has a job is because Dave Chappelle didn’t show up for work one day.”
And it digressed from there. Jeb closed his eyes in laughter, shook his head, and placed his forehead on the bartop. Eventually the couple had to be escorted out. It was a good night.
In general, the bar’s reaction to Jeb’s retirement was mixed at best. Again, the reality of Jeb’s situation was well cloaked. Few knew what was really going on. These few took the time to get to know me, and they knew this day was coming. For everyone else, it was a surprise, but a chance to show some appreciation. And so the people were left to celebrate their beloved DJ… and celebrate they did.
There were two parties in a short amount of time. I remember neither of them. The Christmas party was one evening. That was… something. All I remember margaritas and tacos. I met Hunter’s girlfriend for the first time. She was… hot. My reaction to Hunter was, “Dude, now I know you’re gay. Even I would fuck her.”
December 15th was the party of Jeb’s lifetime. DJ Scot Free was given a sendoff like none other. Shots and cupcakes. Then shots that tasted like cupcakes. I don’t remember much of that evening other than it was AWESOME. Jeb was giving free reign over the music for the entire evening. I thought he did an amazing job… however, those less inebriated informed us that Jeb let the music stop three times over the course of the night.
From that night, I have a busted head light in my truck. I’ve never asked how. I never wanted to know how. To this day, the light still works… so I have never had the cover fixed. There is something metaphoric about a light being broken yet completely functional.
It was a week to forget, and forget we did. With everyone wrapped in joy, it was a series of smiles that made everything in this crazy story buried in the ground while we were toasting in the clouds. It was self-destruction at its best, but this path of disintegration came with laughter, love, appreciation, and obscenities. It was everything Jeb stood for. I was lucky just to be standing near this flawed but brilliant headlight.
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