The Play goes on!

Not all wounds heal. The cuts are too deep; the flesh rejoins crooked and leaves a scar. The scar lingers with us to remind us where we have been and who we spent our time with. I will always carry Chip’s death with me, but I understand I must keep moving if I want to honor him.

‘Most men live quiet lives of desperation’ There are those that hear this line and shake it off. Chip and I were those who felt the burden. We weren’t here to let others define us, we would break our small town walls.

We met freshman year at Michigan. In some ways, we were opposites though I can see now we were just leaning in different directions when we met. Chip was a philosophy student and performing musician; I was the rugby playing engineer. Comedy and music was the common language. And learning. Quintin had introduced us in the dorms. They were both from the burbs outside Detroit and Quintin and I had hit it off during orientation because we listened to the same music. Chip was softer than Quintin and I, more conflicted. Twisted between big dreams with hopeful naivety and the crushing weight of real life expectations and unappealing compromise.

Chip and I were both musicians, but he was the performer. I shy from the crowds; he would create them. And the girls loved him. Though he loved the attention and feel of a well-fitting suit, it wasn’t the vanity he played for, but the music. I don’t think I could have tolerated him otherwise. He was a pretty boy, but he had soul.

We would play guitar and bongos for hours, taking the guitars to parties to play. And though there was a competitive spirit between the two of us, I knew he was the talented one. He wrote his own music, and I was all the merrier to let him belt out the words and play back-up when the time came.

My favorite song is ‘Small town walls’. It was both our song. We weren’t going to be contained by small town suburban dreams. We wanted to see the world. He told people he was from Detroit, because it was easier and it had a sound to it, but he was from Novi, and anyone from Michigan knows the difference.

I remember when his high school girlfriend broke-up with him. He showed up in a suit with flowers to a date, and I think she used the term ‘let’s take a break’. Shit. I can still picture him sarcastically saying it with a big angry grin on his face. Chip was losing his naïve nature. He still believed in true love, but he wasn’t going to let himself be sacrificed at the altar again.

Quintin and I were there to support him, even tease him about it. The teasing a good friend needs when they complain too much. And he got over it, the way a romantic does, singing a pretty song and chasing the next heartbreak.

We lived together with 6 other odd-balls my sophomore year. There was little rhyme or reason to this gang. We called our place ‘The House of Science’ and we created a community around the house buzzing with music and energy. We used to play guitar on the roof for everyone and no-one all at once.

Chip showed me Gaslight Anthem and Kerouac; I showed him how to fry an egg and why sunny-side up is a silly thing to do at home. We weren’t afraid of a disagreement because there was always respect. Healthy disagreements make relationships stronger.

I left that summer to work at a deli on Long Island. He was staying in the house before studying abroad in Germany. We embraced and I left excited to hear what he got up to, what my friend would do to the world, and when we would catch-up again.

I got the call he was gone while I was at work. I couldn’t believe it; no one does on that call, especially when there’s no reason to it—no car accident, overdose, or culprit to blame, just a fragile heart. How ironic for my romantically conflicted friend. I had listened to a voicemail from him that morning that I needed to return. He wanted advice on how to approach a girl he was visiting. Really I think he wanted to catch-up, the advice was just a reason to call.

Depression hit hard when the message settled, and my emotions wore heavy. I was so distraught when I got home my uncle thought I had been jumped. But my family and friends were there for me, the harbor was there for me. I was in a hole of self-pity, but stories and love from those who climbed out before me kept me going.

So I worked, and I drank, and I listened to the music we enjoyed, and I grieved. I got through it in time. I couldn’t go to the funeral later that summer; I wanted our last moment to be what it was. I didn’t want to see the lifeless body, the thought repulsed me. I’ve felt guilt about not being there for mutual friends, but I don’t think there is a right way to grieve, and I can’t blame myself for needing space.

When I came back to school that fall, living with the rugby team helped me move on, but you don’t forget these things, you only hide them. The pain will resurface at times. 

When I returned to our old house to pick up some things and pay respects, I saw the plaque he had made on the top floor where we had lived next to each other. And now his words to me.

‘The Play goes on!’

The play must go on.