Back in the Real World-A Journal-Part Three

I was 14 years old. Bill and I were thick as thieves. He lived in another town, but we spent hours on the phone daily and made plans with each other every weekend. My boyfriend was one of his friends and I was not to fond of his girlfriend. Nor was she of me. It mattered little to us. We had great fun together.
Even during the whole Pizza Grease Fiasco.
Bill was a wild child with his mane of thick orange hair that hung to his shoulders. He was only a few inches taller than me, with freckles splattered on his face, pale blue eyes and a wonderfully wide smile. He was also a bad boy.
His mother would often call me in the middle of the night, saying she could not find him. I would make my round of telephone calls until I found him. Then I would call his Mother back and rat him out. He never once got mad at me for this.
I remember the day I called his home and his Mother said he could not come to the phone. His father was dead.

Bill's Dad had been in a car accident. He was drunk. He hit another car. He took off from the scene and hid out in his home. When he heard the police were looking for him, he thought it was because he had killed someone. So he killed himself. Bill found him.

Bill came out a week later for the first time and he came to me. He was wearing a maroon jogging outfit and his brown workboots. It was my first glimpse at heart-wrenching sadness and I hugged him. And he hugged me. It was the most awesome hug I have ever had. But it was full of too much everything. Too much for any teenager to have to feel. Bill cried that evening. He laughed, too. And I did it with him. He was my best friend.

Years pass by and time can drift you apart. Life changes.
I was living in Tillsonburg and was on the phone with my older brother one day. We reminisced. We talk about the parties and the people and the tragedies and The Aud.
There were so many Bill stories to tell. I had not seen Bill in almost six months and had not talked to him in three.
"I am going to call him, get him to come over tonight," I said to Scott. And I had no doubts he would. We had always dropped everything for each other.
I didn't end up calling him.
I hung out with another friend, instead.

Almost Noon

"Beth, Bill's dead," My brother's voice blurts at me as soon as I say hello into the phone the next morning.
I laugh. "Fuck you."
"Beth, he is dead."
"Shut-up."
"Beth, turn on the TV. It is going to be on the news in a few minutes."

Bill had been one of four passengers in a little pick-up truck. They were all pretty drunk and knowing Bill, high, too. They were speeding along the little backroads in the country when a police officer spotted them.
The driver decided to play chase. I know Bill was having a blast. I can see his face split wide-open in grin, cheering the driver on.
They crashed.
Bill went through the windshield.
The other three were lucky.
Bill died.

I was 16 years old and I had not called him. I never went to the funeral. I was so filled with shame for letting life get in the way. I did not think I could look his Mother in the eye. We had done so much in the past to protect him.
I felt like I had failed.
I heard they played Black Sabbath at the church for him.
I did not notice there was a Real World for a few days.
But even still, I know to this day, Bill is still my best friend.

And I am sure glad you are okay, Charlie.