Sep 4, 2011

What Would I Do?



I never expected I’d be writing something like this again. Somehow, it just never occurred to me. The last dregs of the arrogance of my youth, perhaps? But here I am. Here goes:


A week ago, my dear friend Tom committed suicide. (Strangely enough, on Mr. Badger’s birthday.) After struggling with depression for a long, long time, he took an intentional overdose and died. He was about three weeks away from his 50th birthday.


It feels strange for me to write this, but I wasn’t entirely surprised. That’s not to say that I ever suspected that he was suicidal, but more to say that there are some people who have The Demons, which makes the day-to-day struggle of life a little more precarious than it is for the rest of the population. Tom had The Demons. I do, too. I think that’s one of the reasons we understood each other so well.


Tom and I first met when he was acting in the musical Falsettos during a summer theatre season, and I was working the box office all day and then house managing the theatres all night because hey, a girl’s gotta pay the rent. Tom was a A Town Near You native, and a local actor, and significantly older than me, so I was a little intimidated by him at first, but he was just so warm and welcoming that in no time he and the cast and I were going out every night after rehearsals, which turned into the cast coming in early for rehearsals every day so they could hang out and chat with me while I worked the box office, which turned into going out every night after the shows.


And after bar time each night, we’d creep into this abandoned downtown apartment that had had the electricity cut off. We’d pack the essentials to take along with us each night—candles, liquor, and toilet paper—and we’d set up shop on the carpet underneath the huge windows and have intimate candlelit conversations into the wee hours of the morning. And early the next afternoon, Tom would show up at the theatre, bright eyed and bushy tailed and ready to work, and he’d hand me a Jamba Juice “with extra protein—for the hangover” and we’d chat until it was time for him to go in.


Tom loved musical theatre. I don’t. I really, really don’t. But mainly because I hate the way that in the US, people think that the only theatre is musical theatre. Tom and I used to debate this. But nevertheless, each night when I would house manage, I found myself keeping a close eye on my watch to make sure that I was in the lobby of Tom’s theatre each night during his final song so that I could listen to it over the monitors. For those of you who don’t know, the uber-nutshell version of Falsettos is that it’s the story of a married-with-a-kid man named Marvin who leaves his wife for his younger male lover, and that lover dies of AIDS. At the end of the play, Marvin sings a song that says:


What would I do if I had not met you?
Who would I blame my life on?
Once I was told that all men get what they deserve.
Who the hell then threw this curve?
There are no answers.
But who would I be if you had not been my friend?


And Tom…he sold it. I mean, he sold it like only someone who knows the depths of the human experience could. And each night, I’d listen to him singing over the monitor in the lobby, and I’d cry and simultaneously hate that I was crying, and then I’d run back to my office to straighten myself up before the house was released.


And one night…I don’t know. Tom’s song just hit me and stuck, and I couldn’t really get myself together again. So much to my embarrassment, I was still trying to get the crying under control when Tom came out of the dressing room. Clearly, he thought something was seriously wrong, and all I could get out was, “It’s your song!” before I burst into a new round of tears, and he held both of my hands and looked me in the eye and said, “I know. I know.”


And the thing is, Tom did know. He knew about the heart and the soul and the depths of human emotion. And you could tell Tom anything without embarrassment or shame because as the thing was coming out of your mouth, Tom was nodding his head as if he already knew that that was exactly what you were going to say. He was an expert at dealing with human vulnerabilities because he understood that all human beings were vulnerable and fragile. Including himself. So while sure, Tom could hold his own when it came to bitching about stuff in the way that only theatre people can, he was simultaneously one of the kindest, most nurturing people I ever met. He did not just treat people well, but he treated people lovingly. And every last person who met him absolutely adored him for it. I don’t think I knew anyone so universally loved by the general public. Except for maybe Trudie.


So years later, when we began months of physical theatre training together, it was easy to jump into some really risky work together—not because we were already friends, but because of the kind of friend he was. Tom was someone you could really tune into; he let you connect with him. He offered unwavering support, and he could always tell if you needed a kind word or a shoulder rub or some down-to-earth, no-nonsense advice. So we trained so hard together and we shared secrets and we made beautiful art and worked with each other’s bodies. And really—once you truly trust someone with your body, when you’ve really worked with someone’s body, you’re bonded together forever. And we knew that.


And we laughed. So much. So hard. So many times after spending an evening in Tom’s company, I’d wake up the next morning with my entire core aching from laughing so hard with him. Because he was a funny man, and his laugh was big and contagious. And he laughed with his whole being, you know? Where every inch of his soul was engaged in the joy of the laughter. I always thought it was the way that those of us with The Demons laugh—you know, like you’re given this moment that’s joyful and hilarious and perfect, so you just surrender everything up to it. And you can really appreciate how perfect a thing humor is because you know just how un-funny life can be, so you jump into it up to your neck and revel in it while it lasts. People with The Demons are always the best laughers, and if I heard Tom laughing down the hall or something, my first instinct was to run towards it, to follow the sound of his laughter, because wherever Tom was laughing was definitely the place you wanted to be.


And if you couldn’t catch him laughing, you could always come use the bathroom at Coquette Centre—my old apartment in A Town Near You that I shared first with Charlotte, then later with Sophia—where we had a framed, autographed headshot of Tom hanging in our bathroom in a precise position where if you sat down to pee, he’d be watching you. And it’s hard for a girl to laugh and pee at the same time, but I’ll be damned if it didn’t happen more times than you’d think, with Tom’s half sexy/half serious headshot face staring at me.


And now…it’s hard to conceive of a world without Tom in it, without him out there laughing and singing. And there are a million things that I’ll never be able to look at again without thinking of him, like birthday hats and noise-makers, horoscopes, oranges, da Vinci’s Last Supper, Jamba Juice—with out without extra protein, John Malkovich, my silver cake server…lots and lots of things, little small things that I always connect to Tom in my head.


And Tom’s decision to commit suicide…of course, I wish he hadn’t done it. Of course, I wish that the rest of the world and I had just one more chance to help him, just one chance to get him to change his mind. Of course, I wish he were still here. But it was his choice, so I can’t begrudge him that. It was his body, and his life and his struggle, and he's the only one who knew what he was really going through, so it was his choice to make. And as much as I wish he were still here, I understand that choice.


So the thing that hits me in the chest every couple of hours and leaves me gasping for air is the thought of how much pain he must have been in to make that final decision. He must have been in so much pain, and no one could see the extent of it. The thought of him bearing all that pain all by himself…I think of it, and I can’t breathe. And I find myself wondering, did he really feel all alone? Did he think he had no one to turn to? Did he feel like he was unloved? And I find myself hoping with everything I have that Tom knew how much we all loved him, that we loved that man to bits, and that maybe he knew everyone loved him, but that it just wasn’t enough.


Because everyone did love him. And we still do.


So just once more for the record, Tom, even though it is too late:


I love you, you beautiful, kind, delightful man. I love you.

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