here is where the summation of his life becomes heroic or tragic

A pretty good friend came back from warring, as men have done since fire 

and families, and shot himself in the heart with a SIG Sauer. The note he Ieft 

instructed his sister to donate his brain to Parkinson's research, his kidneys 

to a Muslim or two in need, his pancreas to cancer, and his eyes to diabetes. 

The contents of his bank account he gave to his sister and her children's col-

lege fund. 

 

He was all-American, wheat-haired, played football and hockey. He did pos-

sess a dark side, but pretty openly on social media. He'd cheated on his wife 

when married, gambled and drunk too much, frequented strip clubs. But 

he got himself back into shape, over a decade after fighting in the first Gulf 

War, and reenlisted to go to Iraq. Here is where the summation of his life 

becomes heroic or tragic. Here is where America will comprise the storm 

troopers or Jedis. I offer the following account for future historians to assess 

in our long and rightful chapter within the Book of Nations. 

 

The caretaker of the shabby studio apartment where the suicide happened 

was not a very good friend of mine or the departed's. This not-very-good 

friend had been letting my pretty good friend basically squat there for 

a few months, while the latter got back on his feet. I had no idea they'd 

reconnected as grown men. We all used to ride our bikes to the river in grade 

school, hunting turtles with sticks and shooting sparrows with slingshots. 

Borrowed gutters directed our bottle rockets in a warped game of combat 

tag. My pretty good friend was always in charge. The not-very-good friend, I 

think, felt fortunate just to be allowed to follow our dirt bikes around on his 

sister's rickety ten-speed. His father was a divorced Vietnam vet and alco- 

holic. The kid lived on snack cakes, soft bread, and bologna. And then like 

autumn trees we three fluttered orange, yellow, red, off in our own direc- 

tions into middle and high school and towns beyond. 

 

I saw that one not-very-good friend again four years after my pretty good 

friend's suicide. This stooped, lanky man somehow recognized me in a gro- 

cery parking lot while carrying his two-year-old daughter, who sucked on a 

blue popsicle. He spoke openly with odd amazement of the mess left on the 

white wall and carpet in the apartment he'd let our mutual friend squat in. 

There was splattered blood and a curious, watermelon seed sized bit of 

hardened flesh that he'd found lodged in the hollow of a window frame that 

the painters had missed. He spoke openly of how he'd momentarily debated 

whether or not to call someone about the dry, plum-colored speck of what 

he thought was probably heart matter. 

 

Now his little girl wriggled in his arms. He released her onto the hot asphalt, 

also lowering his voice in speaking of how stressful it was for him as the 

building's caretaker whenever the infamous unit went vacant and he had to 

start showing it again. In the end, this not-very-good friend wrapped the 

bit of probably heart matter in a plastic baggie and stored it in his freezer. As 

we strolled to, then stopped beside my car, he confessed that, though he'd 

never really liked the departed, who'd always picked on his poverty and dif-

ference, he'd kept it. "Just in case science ever comes up with a way to bring 

back the dead." He said this smiling, nervous, strange as ever. And then I got 

into my car with my carrots and eggs, and remembered how, whenever he 

was around, my pretty good friend and I never fought. 

 

[Ed Bok Lee, 'Ballad of the Pretty Good', from Mitochondrial Night]