Novemeber 27, 1999
The plane he was flying crashed into the Columbia River
It killed him and his three sons
His little triumph motor bike broke down at the bottom of the hill
Right in front of my house. I let him borrow my tools. He vaguely recognized me,
But he was happy for the help. He owned the burrito shop where I worked. After that day
He remembered me and said hello.
His wife had lived in New York and I heard she had worked at Vogue. It all seemed very glamorous, the pedigree, the blond streaks. I had never been anywhere yet, except in trouble.
And when she stopped by, tall, worldly, and well dressed with her two blond sons, I wondered, elbow deep in black beans, how I would ever get there, to that grown up, well traveled place, seemingly above it all.
I went to New York to try to find that place, only to find that it doesn't exist.