September 28, 2009

• Meet Me On The Back Wall

  
  In memory of Brian Kaufman

  The Back Wall wasn’t a restaurant, a store, or a bar-n-grill.

  The Back Wall was… well, it was the wall out back of my high school (at the time it was called Roger Ludlowe High school. I think it is called Fairfield High School, now.), right outside of the cafeteria. I suppose that to anyone looking on, it was just the wall of a school, with built-in seating, initials, names and song lyrics written in black magic marker, with windows above, some half-covered with Dead stickers.  Maybe, outside looking in, one would say, “That was where the kids were allowed to smoke.”

  It was the only place on school grounds where cigarette smoking was permitted. Yes, kiddies. Smoking was allowed… not encouraged, but allowed.

  Between classes, it was where guys would meet up with their girlies, and BFFF’s crossed paths, with just enough time between bells to share a ciggy, pass a note or two, and talk about whatever or whoever.

  
  

  
  During lunch, the wall was packed. If you walked out of the café doors and made a right, you’d find yourself surrounded by leather jackets, motorcycle boots, and some really fun people.

  If you made a left out of the doors, you would pass jocks and preps and then be within a few feet of “everyone land”. At the end of the wall were Dead Heads, or WOWs as we called them. The picture of me in my little flower-child getup was taken on The Back Wall, at the very end, WOW-Territory, I guess. The outfit isn’t actually all that different from how I normally dressed (‘cept the stupid headband), but that was a Halloween picture.

  I hung out with tons of people on The Back Wall. Some of those friendships were fleeting, like most high school relationships. Others, like my friendship with Jeanne (my BFFF) continue to grow. All of those friendships, in one way or another, have shaped my life.

  I started to write this post a few months ago, when a man… a boy that I often spent time with on The Back Wall, died. My friendship with Brian was one of the fleeting variety, and so I did not expect his death to hit me quite as hard as it did. I suppose, in a way, I wanted to sort of lump him in with all of the other losses I had recently experienced… like that would make it less terrible or more tolerable. I was wrong. It was a completely separate loss. Completely.

  Brian was “something” to a lot of people. All of the folks on the Facebook group (“The Back Wall”) had something meaningful to say about him. I couldn’t… not because there was nothing for me to say, but because I felt silly sharing such little things (like, “He was the only person to ever call me Loch Ness and get away with it!”) with people I barely even know anymore. Like my “fleeting” friendship with this person was less than important. I was wrong. Completely.

  I have a lidded plastic container that I call my Memory Box. In it, I keep old letters, pictures, postcards and mementos of places I’ve been, people I have loved… silly things, items that most people would probably throw away. I do not go through it as often as I used to. When we began cleaning up and reorganizing the apartment, I found it in the big closet, all the way in the back, on the floor.

  I wanted to take a break, so I pulled it out of the closet, brought it into the front room and lifted the lid.

  At the very top, there was a small folded piece of old notebook paper. It was addressed to “Loch Ness”. I smiled and opened the mini-note. It read:

  Meet me on the back wall!
  

  Sitting there on my couch, I remembered when Brian handed me the note; we were passing one another in the ever-crowded hall, fairly close to my locker. The note doesn’t mention WHY I should meet him on The Back Wall; it didn’t have to. I remember. He was trying to teach me to play hacky-sack… we ended up getting high, and I made him play his guitar instead. Hotel California.

  I kept the note out for a little while and smiled like a jackass. That was one of the most fun afternoons I ever had, out on The Back Wall with Brian.

  There was nothing insignificant or less than important about my friendship with the only person who ever got (or will ever get) away with calling me “Loch Ness.”

  I’m glad I got his note.
  

  • 5:40 pm
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