Joe

B.B. Russell shot himself in the heart. His wife found him in the back yard before he'd fully died. Joe received a call and went straight over. He arrived to a circus of emergency vehicles, police officers and Laurie standing in the middle of it, in shock.

Another of Joe's friends slit his wrists this week. He was found lying in a pool of blood on the bathroom floor. He survived his attempt to end his suffering. If you can call that survival.

Joe's Dad is in the hospital. Whatever he's got, it's serious. Joe's family is waiting. Waiting for test results. Waiting for a diagnosis. Waiting for a prognosis. Waiting for some certainty.

Certainty never comes.

In the midst all this, Joe was abandoned by the woman he loves.

Joe is my friend. I love him beyond measure. He writes songs that pierce your heart and sings like it's his last day on earth.

Joe and I have a lot in common. We constantly fuck up. And then we spend a lot of time and money trying to recover from our bad choices and depression-induced avoidance of material world obligations. We are both too sensitive for our own good. We perpetually try to make sense of senseless matter and drive ourselves mad doing so.

The first night Joe and I hung out together was the sort of all-night excursion that takes on epic proportions. I worked at The Garage back then and usually wrapped up my evening around 4 a.m. Joe tended bar across the street at a joint that happened to have a pretty nice coffee machine. I would often stop in to grab a cup of coffee to help see me home. One night, Joe needed a ride home and so I offered my services.

That night I learned that something as simple as a trip from point A to point B turns into a labyrinthine adventure with Joe. We wound our way through the countryside surrounding Walkertown, dropping by this place, checking on that, talking til dawn.

A silvery mist rose in the predawn light as I navigated curvy country roads. The asphalt's mundane aspect took on a mystical sheen. And suddenly, we came upon a magnificent hawk standing motionless in the middle of the road. I slowed my car nearly to a halt and inched ever closer to this creature. It stayed fixed atop its fresh kill - a large rodent. I finally stopped my car completely. Joe and I stared in silence at this tremendous bird, standing so close we could see its eyes, its talons, the texture of its feathers.

Joe finally broke the silence.

"It's a hawk!"

I corrected him. "It's a magical hawk!"

Joe agreed. "It is a magical hawk! I wonder if it'll let me pet it!"

"I don't know, Joe. He might think you're after his food."

"I want to touch him!"

Joe reached for the door handle. And as soon as he did, the hawk flew away, carrying his kill in his talons. Joe and I sat in stupid silence for several minutes. There. In the middle of the road. At the break of day. We had just seen a magical hawk.

I reminded Joe of this story tonight as I tried to comfort him. I told him that in the Native American tradition, Hawk carries our messages to Great Spirit and Great Spirit's messages to us.

Joe feels abandoned by God. I told Joe that he doesn't have to believe in God. But the magical Hawk is real. He can hear Joe. And he can carry his messages on his wings as he soars through the sky.

I don't know how to help my friends when they've reached their limit. I know how it feels to reach that point. And still, I don't know how to help others once they've reached it. All I know to do is hold them, either in my arms or in my heart. Just hold them.