Now it’s going on what sixteen years? Anyway, his name was Steve McCollough, and he was my roommate for a number of years back in the early 90s. I lived at his house that was next door to my parents’ place in West Richland. Coincidence? Perhaps, but our lives intertwined from one extreme to the other. We became friends then departed ways, then roommates, then former roommates, and so on until my sister called me that evening maybe three months after Mom died that he had passed too.
It was one of those freak accidents we all hear about. You know, you’re home alone and you have to reach for something and get a step stool or chair, and you lose your balance and crash hard into the floor. In his case, a countertop ledge got in the way and his head struck that instead. One of his brothers, who lived near his apartment tried reaching him and got concerned when he didn’t get an answer, went to investigate.
The news was a shock to say the least, especially for me and my sisters. Cathy as fate would have it, became more than just friends, eventually living with each other and becoming lovers, but that ended as most relationships pretty much do, including mine.
His brother called my sister and told her the news that Steve was gone. She told me all about the funeral afterwards. I’m not sure if he even suffered but it was revealed he had probably been that way, lying on the kitchen floor for days. His father was devastated.
Like me, Steve had a substance abuse issue. Drinking and smoking pot was par for him for a number of years. I don’t know if he ever quit. His brother told Cathy he was trying to slow down. I guess she informed Steve of my stroke and that scared the crap out of him.
But, back in our roomy days, our concerns were work and after work, relaxing out on the back deck where we leaned on a bar top he built and watched the grass grow in the backyard, told stories and got high.
We played Frisby on occasions when it was summer and warm in the evenings. One day he threw one up on top of the pump house’s roof, obviously out of my reach. Though Steve stood about three inches taller than me, it was out of his reach too. So he hoisted me upon the roof’s edge just enough for me to grab hold and then I threw the disc back out onto the yard.
He then released his hold onto my foot and down I went, hearing a distinct pop of my left knee as my feet landed on the grass. I was in definite pain and reminded him I had to go to my two-week National Guard annual training the following Saturday.
Now it’s thirty years later and that episode is fresh in my mind now that my left knee is messed up from my meniscus and my health insurance provider has denied my orthopedic specialist a claim to run an MRI to see how much damage and whether I’ll need surgery, I’m reminded of that summer evening with my friend who I miss so much.
Jerry Schellhammer 