I Picked up a Two-Slice Toaster at a Second-Hand Store & Survived on Kellogg's Pop-Tarts...
Living in a room on the second floor of Dick's house in East Walpole wasn't awful. It was cheap, and I didn't have to commit to a lease or anything long-term. I paid by the week, had a guaranteed parking space, and the house was less than a mile from a Dunkin' Donuts. It doesn't get much better than that.
Sure, I shared a bathroom with a loud and sometimes obnoxious trucker and a middle-aged adulterer, and his flavor of the day, but other than not having a kitchen, it wasn't all that bad.
I picked up a two-slice toaster at a second-hand store and survived on Kellogg's Pop-Tarts; frosted brown sugar cinnamon was my favorite. During the winter months, I kept a half gallon of whole milk on the front window sill. I had a 16" black and white TV on a wobbly rolling stand my future brother-in-law gave me, and every night, I rolled it up to the bed and watched Johnny Carson, and before I went to sleep, David Lettermen's monologue. I slept in thermal underwear because it was so fucking cold in the room. What was I expecting for 25 bucks a week?
I had an old red and white checkered Adirondack chair a friend gave me, and I paid to have a phone so I could talk to my girlfriend and call Pokey, my friend and boss, to see if we had any work, which was always day-to-day. We did landscape construction, and in the winter, we plowed and split firewood. It was 1976, and a cord of dried oak was $165 delivered and stacked.
I met Jeff during my senior year in high school. He was a year younger than me, and in Miss Green's English class, he and I were dueling class clowns. We became friends and hung out on weekends, getting stoned and trying to outdo each other with jokes and one-liners. I nicknamed him "Wahoo" because he reminded me of the AFL football player and professional wrestler "Wahoo McDaniel." Jeff was strong like McDaniel but wasn't an athlete or anything close, and he didn't pretend to be one, either.
Jeff was five foot seven and thick through the middle. He had medium-length light brown hair combed to one side and wore gold, thin-framed glasses. I knew he couldn't see a whole heck of a lot without them. We would squeeze a bunch of kids into his father's Delta 88, and while he was cruising around town at a good clip, he would suddenly stop the car, take off his glasses, and yell, "Rumble!" and then we'd have a full-scale rumble in the car. He couldn't see, so he threw blind punches in the air, hoping to connect. Despite not being able to see much, he was a fucking dangerous kid to have a car rumble with.
I had never been to Ann's Place in Norton, and Jeff took me there, singing the restaurant's praises all the way over. He told me to get the clam plate and that he was buying. I liked it so much that we ate at the lakeside restaurant three, sometimes four times a month. It was located on Lake Winnecunnit, where The Chateau is now, and we always sat at a table by the window, one that had a great view of the water.
He smoked Winstons, and I smoked Marlboros. After the meal, we stayed for another beer, a smoke, and the view. At the time, the drinking age in Massachusetts was 18.
We were both big fans of Van Morrison, and our favorite song of his was Moondance. We both had the 8-track tape, and it didn't matter whose car we were in; we played it over and over again and never got tired of hearing it. I suppose we were both searching for the girl the jazz-inspired song speaks to in what has been described as "a starry night rife with romance…"
After I graduated high school and went off to college, I didn't see him much. After he graduated high school, he went to a local community college, and we reconnected and started hanging out again when I returned from South Florida.
During his freshman year in college, he and his friend Richard decided to spend spring break in Fort Lauderdale. When they landed and were getting their luggage, Jeff looked oddly at Richard and demanded he take him to his house. Richard wasn't sure what was happening; Jeff's house was 1,500 miles away, so he called Jeff's father, who told him to keep him at the airport and call him back in 15 minutes. He was setting up a flight home for his son.
Richard convinced Jeff to get on the plane to go home, and once he was home, his dad took him to see a psychiatrist who immediately hospitalized him. Jeff had suffered a complete and total nervous breakdown.
Jeff's oldest brother had mental health issues, and Jeff thought it was hereditary and was always concerned he would develop mental health issues of his own. I constantly assured him he was pretty fuckin' normal in my eyes. I never saw this coming.
Weeks later, when he returned home from the hospital, I called him daily, but he said we couldn't get together because he had to help his mother. His voice was monotone and almost unrecognizable. It had to be the antidepressants they were pumping him full of.
At one point, I drove to his house, but his mother came to the door and said Jeff didn't want to see anyone. I left her my phone number in East Walpole, "In case he had a change of heart…"
A few weeks later, he called and sounded unbelievably well. He said he was coming to my place in East Walpole on Thursday night at 8:30. I was pumped. I told him we could get stoned and eat boxes of frosted brown sugar cinnamon Pop-Tarts. He laughed and said he was looking forward to it.
8:30 turned to 9:00 and then 9:30 to 10:00. When I didn't think he was coming, I put on my thermals, pulled the TV close to the bed, and started watching. I hoped he was okay and hadn't relapsed…
A little after 10:30, I heard something banging around in the stairwell and then more banging and laughter. I opened my door and yelled down the dark stairwell, "Hey, Wahoo, that you?"
He was laughing so hard he could barely respond. He couldn't see, and he was tripping on the stairs. Once he was in the room, I pulled the Adirondack chair over for him and sat on the edge of the bed. He took a joint out of his pack of Winstons, and we got stoned. We told jokes, laughed, and devoured some Pop-Tarts we chased with ice-cold milk I pulled off the sill, agreeing that we had to go to Ann's Place for some clam plates very soon.
He stayed until just after 1:00, and before he left, I looked him in the eyes and said, "Wahoo, I'm so glad you're back!"
Jeff knew I wasn't making a lot of money working for Pokey, so he asked his father if I could work for him in his machine shop on the North Shore. His father said okay.
Jeff called very excited and told me about the job. He said that I could ride in with him and his father. At first, it sounded like a great opportunity, but when he said his father left Sharon at 4:15, I knew I'd have to leave East Walpole by 3:45, which meant waking up at 3:15.
I told Jeff I wasn't a morning person, but he insisted I'd get used to it. He said his father stopped on the way and got coffee and donuts, so the ride to the shop would be a lot of fun.
I couldn't do it, at least not that early in the morning, so I thanked Jeff for the opportunity and declined the offer. He got quiet, and then we said goodbye. He hung up first.
It wasn't long after that that my friend Rick called and told me Jeff had checked himself into a motel and overdosed. He was just 20 years old…
I've regretted not taking that job my entire life. Maybe I could've helped him, maybe not, but I'll never know…
Whenever I hear this, I think of Jeff and all the great times we had…
If You or Someone You Know is in Crisis and Needs Immediate Help, Call or Text The Suicide and Crisis Lifeline at 988