Phillip.
It’s been almost a year since Phillip leapt to his death off of the balcony of the ninth story apartment he lived in. He jumped at dusk, I think he waited until the natural lighting was just right; bright enough for the dramatic display, and dim enough to hide the horror. His mother heard about it on the 11:00 news while she was lying in bed with her boyfriend. I heard about it the following day. I saw his picture on the inside of the front page of the local newspaper when I was checking to see where the editors put my crossword puzzle. My first reaction was to call him and tell him I saw his picture in the paper. When I didn’t get an answer I read the article.
I received a manila envelope from Phillip’s mother at his funeral. It was sealed and had my name on it. Inside were pages of writing, thoughts scribbled hastily on Post-its, letters, theories, stories, even essays and various school assignments dating back up to ten years… there was also his account. The three-day suicidal prelude. His story of Angelica. I read those pages alone in my room over and over again and again. The six-months that ended twenty plus years. I tried to figure out why. I still catch myself trying some nights, in between bouts of feeling the betrayed and betrayer… I’m so bloody presumptuous.
Phillip and I had a lot in common. Broken homes and broken hearts being the foremost unifying factors to come to mind. I never met Phillip’s father, and Phillip didn’t remember anything about him but the one-sided accounts his mother gave. Phillip’s mother was very independent. She worked… a lot. When she wasn’t working she was usually occupied in some other endeavor, that didn’t involve Phillip in any way, which left him to pretty much fend for himself since he was twelve years old. Phillip was an escape artist, always immersed in secret worlds; video games, movies, books; he’d pick up anything that would take him away to a different place. He was quiet around people he didn’t know, so it’s no wonder it took four years of association before we hit it off… but we hit it off. Phillip was an idealist, always searching for the best… he wouldn’t settle for better, he held out for the best. He put off everything, never committing, always hoping that perfection would find him. Well, I guess he thought he found what he was looking for and it killed him. What scares me is that I’m much the same.
We would talk about anything and everything. Morality and ethics, philosophy, theology, politics, literature, movies, culture, current events… even the best way to fix a cup of tea or coffee. More than anything else we would talk about love. What was it, how did you find it and if you were ever lucky enough to spot it, even from a distance, how could it be obtained? My favorite definition of love is still 1 Corinthians 13. I’m not about to go into what the Bible is or isn’t. Not now… but even Phillip liked that passage.
“It’s practical.”
He was right. It’s a love that you can choose and demonstrate, even when the sensation escapes… as I’m told it does in time. However, he tried, and the outcome wasn’t promising.
He spoke about Angelica twice to me. Once the day after the party where he first met her, and during our last coffee when I was so preoccupied with my own infatuation I ended up fueling the fire. That’s what seemed to happen when we got together… we’d fuel each other’s passions. We’d elevate our ideas, to standards we could never grasp, and then we’d discuss the means of stretching ourselves to reach those new heights. For two weeks prior I was away visiting my father, this was while much of what transpired between them took place, and that last week I was busy… so I didn’t see him. Nevertheless, during that final face to face, we were seated at that table for hours. All we could talk about revolved around our ideals and the manifestations of them we found.
“Tell me about this Angelica.”
“She’s perfect. That’s all I can say… she’s absolutely perfect.”
“No one’s perfect.”
“You don’t believe that.”
I’d had two big crushes in my life thus far. Both of them were “perfect”. I told him of them. But I didn’t even know I had actually fallen in love yet. I’d have denied it if asked… probably still would.
“I know I don’t… but I thought you might.”
It was news to me that Phillip saw in me that a new perfection had taken form in my heart before I even knew it was there, but he did. He didn’t call me on it… but somehow he knew that there was a change that took place in me while I visited my father’s house… and that I had met my own Angelica.
The closest thing I’ve had to an actual girlfriend, meaning a mutual committed relationship, at the time of my writing this, was in grade eight. Alice was my first crush and I actually got her. That’s a horrible way to put it, but words fail me in how to express my relationships, which is a part of that whole problem. More on that later. We met (Alice and I) informally in grade six or seven, but it was in grade eight that I was in her class. My crush was fully developed in November, after attending her birthday party, but it wasn’t until after she had hooked up and broken up with Jerry, and the summer began, eight months later, that I took my shot. I asked her and she said yes and it was official. I was young then, my own parents were separated or preparing to, it was in the summer before transitioning to high school, and we were going to different ones, and I was getting the impression that she was at a point where holding hands wasn’t enough for her, whereas holding her hand, for me… nevertheless, we were going out for one month before I was sufficiently terrified at where the relationship was inevitably headed and I ran.
My second crush was just that in hindsight… a crush, that it lasted three years might say something about my perseverance, tenacity, or any number of issues I have, but looking back, and in contrast to how I feel about this present girl, Julianne remains a crush. Albeit, I’ll admit, a life-altering one.
Phillip knew about Alice and Jules… and evidently about Hope as well.
He knew things in the sense that he thought a lot and was always well acquainted with anything he shared. Knowledge to Phil was more a relationship he had with and idea than an idea itself. When he said he knew something, he wasn’t claiming to have reached a profound conclusion on the matter, he didn’t make many vocal assertions, rather he would write everything down, and puzzle everything out, and then edit and rethink and get tied up in the idea as a whole, with all of its inconsistencies and complexities, then put into action a simple plan. Even that was only when his imagination didn’t get the best of him. He would zone out for a second and then, if he was in a particularly careless mood, he would take you on this wild journey of images and connections and if you were lucky you could hold on. He could elaborate on an instantaneous thought for an hour.
I have my moments too; instances where my imagination takes me on a trip that I don’t have time to pack for. Unlike Phillip however, I keep my fantasies separate from reality… which could explain my somber demeanor much of the time. I am far more careless and assuming in my convictions. I know things. I even know things I don’t know at all… I just keep most everything to myself. I never answer questions easily…
“What’s your new catch’s name?”
“My catch?”
“You know what I mean, who is she?”
I make people fight to know me.
“Who?”
“This girl you’ve met at your fathers’ house.”
“I didn’t meet anyone at my dad’s home that fits the context you’re placing them in.”
“Then adjust the context and get it out already!”
“I can’t answer a question that isn’t phrased well enough to grasp so much as the basic idea you’re concerned with.”
“I shouldn’t even have to ask, Foster… you should just be able to tell me.”
I had yet to be able to keep a thought from Phil.
“Her name is Hope.”
“Is that really her name or is that just a euphemism for her role in your life at present?”
“How could Hope ever be a euphemism?”
“You haven’t met Angelica…”
I didn’t have to meet Angelica. I couldn’t believe he called me on it though. Hope is a euphemism for the one who I’ll call Hope throughout, but not just a euphemism… while it is a less than adequate word to ascribe to this wonder who has captivated me, Hope is the best way I can articulate who she is. More on that later too. After we had both sat in silence for a while Phil brought us back by slurping his last sip of coffee.
“She’ll be the death of me Fost …”
“If you haven’t found something worth dying for you have nothing worth living for.”
“What are you saying?”
“Find her, Phil… and when you do, live a little.”
That’s when I showed him the ticket.
Some people like to think of themselves as influential in the lives of others. I don’t. The way I see it, influence is equal to a compounded responsibility and accountability, the last thing I want is to be judged for someone else’s actions. That doesn’t ease the pang of guilt I still occasionally feel when I think about Phil, and that last cup of coffee we had, and the turn the conversation took. Especially when he asked the following:
“What would you die for, Fost?”
There is no such thing as a simple question… simplicity is contingent on ignorance, but there are loaded questions and then there are loaded, cocked, safety off, finger already on the trigger questions.
I don’t remember what exactly I said, so I’ll give you the literary account. As far as “what” goes, I think the only things worth dying for are intangible and abstract. Truth, love, I think that exhausts my list; I’d even argue that they’re the same thing, I think I did argue that with Phil, but the time I’d die for them is dependant on how the abstract applies to an individual. Truth and love are only valuable in so much as they apply to people, and it is only in such a context that I’d die for something; I’d die for someone.
“That was beautiful, but incredibly vague.”
“I know. I wouldn’t want to commit to dying for something now that I might not want to die for later… I’d be a hypocrite… even more so.”
“I think I’ll die for her.”
I heard what he said, loud and clear, still…
“Excuse me?”
“I said I think I’d die for her… I think I love her.”
“Haven’t we been through this?”
“No, I don’t think either of us have been through anything like this before. This is love and death.”
“Life and death.”
“You said it yourself; there’s no life without love.”
“Did I say that?
“Something to that effect.”
“I did didn’t I… well, that’s true… but love is a sorely misused word these days.”
“Let’s define it.”
“It’s already been defined.”
“1 Corinthians 13?”
I tried to remember what it said before I nodded… but I nodded anyway.
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