July 29, 2015.
Afternoon.
I’m playing on my phone when I had a fleeting, subconscious feeling that I had just lost one of my friends.
July 29, 2015.
Evening.
I’m sitting on my bed browsing on my laptop when I got the text.
“Alex. Don’t tell anyone.”
“I won’t.”
“Joe killed himself.”
I have seven different friends named Joe, some I am closer to than others. Joe was not my best friend but I had known him for eight years. That's a lot of time and we got to know each other pretty well over that time. When my friend James told me that “Joe” killed himself, he didn’t have to tell me which Joe; I knew. I just knew.
I remember when he transferred into St. Paul Catholic School in fifth grade and every girl thought he was the cutest boy in our class and I just could not see why. I ran cross country and track with him, he was so fast. I wanted so badly to catch him in races but he was too good.
We kept in touch all throughout high school, through St. Paul Youth Group or events with mutual friends. I danced with him at a mixer for his high school. That was so fun. It was junior year, we were talking and then Joe says to me “So uh… Alex, wanna dance?” and I said yes, of course, and we danced and kissed and it was funny and ironic because I never was attracted to him back in grade school.
July 29, 2015.
Night.
“What do we do now?”
“I don’t know I’m crying so much I can’t breathe.”
We were all at a loss. All the guys, his girl friends, and I, none of us knew what to do. Joe went to University of Detroit Jesuit High School, an all-boys school. Everyone loved Joe there, it was impossible to hate him. He was all smiles all the time.
That night I drove to St. Paul Church and prayed with two of my friends and some parish mothers for an hour. After that, I got in my car and drove around aimlessly for an hour until I ended up at my friend’s house. I asked him to come sit and talk with me, and he did, for about an hour or so. After that, I left his to drive laps around my city until I decided I needed someone to talk to, yet again, and headed for my best friend's house. I stayed with her for an hour, talking until I left to drive around in circles again. At three in the morning, when I finally got home, I just put the car in park and sat in the driveway screaming and crying at the world.
July 30, 2015.
“I don’t know what to do. I was talking to him last night.”
“I don’t either, Alex.”
“How could this happen?”
I cried more at that prayer service than I did at my own grandmother’s funeral two years ago. The whole thing was absolutely beautiful and terribly awful at the same time. His friends and classmates told stories about him and his father cried when he was thanking us all for coming. I stayed with the guys after it was over. We sat in pews crying and clinging to each other. It was a comfort to know we had one another, all of Joe’s friends, we were in this together.
The following couple days were full of prayer services, the wake and funeral, and overall a lot of tears. But mostly, our huge group of friends, which consisted of the Jes guys and a couple of us girlfriends, hung out and just got drunk every night (it’s what Joe would've done). We would stay out until three or four in the morning, way past any of our curfews. Everyone smoked a lot of cigarettes, even the guys that were against it, because that’s what Joe did all summer, although he really tried to quit. Some of them would say, “my first and last cig, for Joey B!”
Everyone did little things like that to commemorate Joe. We would go to Kroger barefoot, or carve his initials into a ukulele. There was no escaping him, not that any of us wanted to.
A lot of memories and stories were told on those late, alcohol-filled nights. One of his best friends, Alex, who Joe lived with over the summer, talked about how Joe texted in the guys’ group message about needing somewhere to live. Kate, Alex's younger sister, said he showed up to his house asking for money to go to California. That was Joe’s paradise. He sung about it, he always wanted to go there.
We played a lot of his music those first couple days, especially the day of the funeral. Joe and another friend, Tommy, wrote their own songs. The lyrics don't always make sense and sometimes Joe sings off-key, but we all listened to it -- on repeat. And we loved it.
August 28, 2015.
“I wanna go get my smile tatted for Joe.”
“Okay I’ll come with you.”
Joe had two tattoos, a smiley face on his wrist and a giant stupid sun on his chest. That day, I picked up my friend to go to Elite Ink. This was the same place that Joe got his smiley and they kept the template of the face he drew himself. The tattoo is about the size of my pinky nail and it did not hurt a bit. I had always wanted a tattoo but I never thought my first one would be in remembrance of my suicidal friend. I’m not complaining, though, this tiny smile on my wrist is the happiest thing in my life.
August 30, 2015.
“Fuck you Joey B. for dying on us and leaving us to deal with this.”
“He better have made it to paradise after all this.”
It really messed us all up, Joe dying. I felt confused and hurt and angry and sad and happy all at once. Confused because I could not process what was happening. Hurt and sad because I was angry at Joe for leaving us. Happy because I know he is okay now, free from everything that was making him depressed.
September 12, 2015.
“He talked about you the night before he died.”
“Really? Joey B. talked about me?”
“Yeah, he said you were one of his closest friends out of the girls.”
I went to visit some friends at Michigan State University one weekend and I ran into Kate at a party. We gushed over the fact that we had matching smiley face tattoos on our wrists. This eventually led to us chatting about Joe and his last nights. She revealed to me that he had talked about me the night before he committed suicide. They were talking about their best friends and who they thought they were closest to. Joe told Kate, “That girl Alex, we don’t talk like every day, but I think she’s one of my good friends. She just kinda gets the world, ya know? She’s pretty cool.”
When Kate told me that, my heart shattered and repaired itself in about 60 seconds. I was filled with so much joy to know that Joe cared about me so much so that he had talked about me to his house sister. I will never forget her telling me that.
September 22, 2015.
“Are you okay?”
“No. Can I call you? I just miss him so much.”
The last time I saw Joe was at someone’s birthday party. I wasn't even going to go in the first place but I am forever grateful I did. Joe was wearing a drug-rug poncho and he had been playing his ukulele… until he broke it. But Joe, being Joe, kept trying to play on it anyway. He drummed and rapped and I got to hug him goodbye when James and I left at 3 a.m.
“F**k it all, I’m making my own sunshine today.” -Joe, "Makin Sunshine"
