My friend Pat was, first and foremost, a lousy guy. Not because of any significant infraction. Not because he had broken any major laws, though he had broken a few. We all had. It wasn’t because of the multiple DUIs, which many of my friends had. It wasn’t because he had foolishly left the state with unfinished court business, leaving him with a month-long stint in the county jail.
What made Pat a lousy guy was what made all of us lousy guys at the time—terrible jokes at other people’s expense, a penchant for chasing skirts around, cliche toxicity, and little to no respect for other people’s property. Pat was one of the worst offenders in all of these aspects.
I don’t think he meant anything by his jokes. He was educated at the University of Charleston, with a degree in history—he was not stupid. I won’t be an apologist for the bad things he said. But he was quite liberal, as am I. He would espouse words about racial equality and feminism that I heartily agreed with. But his general selfish behavior did not take others into account, except for the few sentimental times when we did things in the name of being “best friends”.
And in that “best friends” vein, he was pleasant. We had the same taste in movies and books and music—many long conversations and road trips to nowhere. We were always broke and on an adventure and scheming our next moves. It was good. It was how it was supposed to be.
I recall waking up on the couch of his apartment after a long night of drinking. He placed a toasted egg and cheese sandwich on my stomach.
“Always be a good host,” he smiled.
I remembered the playful argument the night before. I stated that I did not understand the appeal of Mick Jagger outside of his singing. Pat proceeded to pull up old videos on the internet and attempt to move around in a dance, as Jagger does. A hilarious attempt that resulted in the two of us making our best moves with the most serious of faces.
“You’re crazy. Just look at that beautiful man. You just can’t comprehend it. Those distinct features. Those moves. How could anyone resist?” he pleaded his case.
There was another night hanging out with Pat and my other longtime friend, Charles. Pat was arguing that we just didn’t take our time and treat ourselves right anymore.
“We used to take time in the mornings. Sit, read the newspaper, digest our thoughts before rushing out the door. I don’t think we do anymore.”
We agreed.
“Treat yourself like a king if you want to be a king,” said Charles.
“Exactly,” said Pat.
We crashed at Charles’ parents’ house that night. His parents were out of town.
The next morning Pat did the same routine with the breakfast. He also added one more step.
“Sir, if you’d come with me.”
He had “drawn a bath” for Charles. The emphasis was on the phrase ” to draw a bath”. Pat had stated the point that “people used to have baths drawn for them”. It was made fancy and dignified in our minds. He played it up big time. I laughed myself to tears watching how it played out.
Charles disrobed and placed his hands on his hips in a regal manner. He took Pat by the hand, who was bowing quite deeply, and was guided to the bath. Charles lowered himself into the warm water regally.
“I’ll go fetch some towels, your highness,” Pat announced.
It was a hilarious act of exaggeration and one-upmanship, and my friends didn’t miss a chance to play the part they were given.
Pat was a dual citizen. He spent half of his childhood in the UK with his father and the other half here in the states with his mom. It was a point of intrigue that he never hesitated to mention to a girl. He was not a bad-looking guy and did alright for himself in the dating department. Women, typically far more mature than us, could mostly see through the thin veil of smarminess and charm that he put on. This was a guy that did not have it together yet. None of us did. But it was going to take Pat a while longer than the rest.
Pat brought the worst out of me. One night he and Charles were completely banned from coming to my place(I had recently moved in with my girlfriend). They got into an argument and wrestled in the small front yard of the townhouse, rolling through my girlfriend’s flowers. They couldn’t come back after that night, and I was in the doghouse because I wasn’t exactly jumping to stop them. I would have had to stop laughing to stop them.
My wife now(not the same person as the girlfriend whose flowers were destroyed) said she met Pat incidentally because he went on a few dates with an acquaintance of hers. I believe her; we were in a town-sized version of “Cheers”. Everyone knew our names.
One evening in late November, I met up with Pat and our other friend Roy. Roy and Pat had known each other for the longest of any of us. They met in elementary school. We talked about random movies. Pat ogled women at the bar. We had too much to drink, per usual. It was a normal night, filled with bad jokes, laughter, and general shitty guy behavior.
We went to the parking lot and said our goodbyes and I went home.
Roy went home with Pat behind him and they went to his place. They lived close to one another. Roy talked with Pat for a while but knew his girlfriend would not be pleased with Pat spending the night. Pat had on several occasions, ruined his reputation in the same manner that he and Charles had at my place. Roy sent him on his way.
The next day I hadn’t heard from Pat but thought nothing of it. In the evening I called Pat and got no answer. Then I called Roy, who told me about their spat and that he hadn’t heard from him either.
A few days after that I got a call from Roy saying that Pat’s mother had called and couldn’t find him.
A day after that, I got a call from Roy again. Pat was in the hospital. He was unconscious but alive.
Roy and I rushed to the hospital. His mom met us in tears. Pat was there. His eyes were closed.
It turns out Pat had left Roy’s and not gone home. They found his car wrapped around a tree on a winding back road early in the morning. Because of the fact that he was so drunk, the doctors say he was mostly okay, his body went limp during the impact.
But when he arrived for emergency surgery with his limbs broken in several places, the alcohol in his blood added to complications. His lungs filled up with fluids. He drowned; part of his brain died.
Over the next week, we waited.
I got a call from his mother in the afternoon. She was excited. “He’s awake!”
I drove out to the hospital after work. I met up with Roy and Charles. We entered the room where Pat was moved.
We approached him, pensive, scared.
“Hi Pat,” I said.
Pat looked at us and his eyes filled with fear. He moaned.
The nurse spoke to us, “Don’t take it personally. He doesn’t recognize you.”
Pat yelled again. Our friend sounded like a scared toddler with a man’s voice.
His mother stroked his head, “It’s okay. It’s okay.”
Christmas carolers were going from room to room singing a medley of songs in the ward. They got to the doorway and began singing “Silent Night”. I cried.
Over the next several months, we visited Pat countless times. He was released to his mother’s home, who had a room set up with all of the equipment needed to aid with his care. He had to be fed, changed, and cleaned. He lacked the coordination to do any of it.
Pat had been given a haircut and shaved the day before.
“He looks so handsome now,” his mother said.
He did look better, more himself. But he writhed around, his jaw slack and open, wiggling his tongue. And though he did not look at us with fear anymore, there was no recognition, no spark. The sounds were unintelligible.
The months passed, Pat’s wounds healed, but he was still limited to a bed. His mind did not return.
At some point in the following year, Roy called me.
“Pat’s not coming back. I think it’s time we let him go.”
I felt selfish and upset at first, but he was right. Our Pat wasn’t coming back. We went to say goodbye to him one last time. That was the last time I saw him. It was sad. I felt guilty. It took a long time for that weight to lift. It felt like giving up in many ways. It is what Pat would have done in the reverse situation though. People need to move on.
That was near eleven years ago now.
Roy took it the worst, I think. He still carries a lot of guilt for sending him on his way on the night of the crash. I’ve told him countless times, “It’s not your fault. Pat was a shitty guy, and he was going do what he wanted to do, regardless.”
It’s still a mystery as to why he ended up out there on that road. Was it a text from a girl? That’s what we think was most likely. Pat’s motivations were usually simple. That means he would have left Roy’s house anyway.
Roy needed to let go when we did. I understand that now.
I still think of Pat from time to time. I wonder who he would have become if he’d matured and settled into a career or relationship. I’m married with three kids now. I wonder if he would have had kids. I wonder if he would have been a good uncle to mine. I imagine he would have. I pass the spot where he crashed occasionally. I think of his smarmy grin.
I watch my kids grow and hope my kids are less shitty than my friends and I were. I like to hope that I’m instilling something better in them—the need to consider other people in all they do and say. Maybe I’m delusional, but I’m trying. I don’t want them to be like I was. I definitely don’t want them to be like Pat was. Because first and foremost, Pat was a bad guy, but I like to think that he would have gotten better. I realize that what happened was a product of his own actions. But I still love him and miss him.
