A high school friend recently dragged me into a graduating class site on Facebook. I was scrolling down the news and came across the death of James Schwartz. It hit me hard. I knew James. Spent a LOT of time hanging with him after school. We made short films together. Really stupid stoner movies (even though at the time, I didn't even toke). It seemed, after school, he didn't want to go home as much as I didn't. I got the feeling it may've had something to do with family issues. But never thought to ask.
I'm not sure what his issues were but was really surprised to learn he'd suffered from alcoholism.
You can imagine my surprise at this, considering I'd just sobered up. At the time of our senior year, I can sense something was off. The guy was a very popular guy. He had long hair like Jesus, girls LOVED him. Rich kid to boot. But something was off. He'd like to hang out with us scrubs. Me and a guy named John O. He loved that we did things. Mostly shoot short movies in the park or just make something. Keep ourselves active. Keep ourselves creative. Most of us drunks do tend to eventually not be enamored with a lot. Our passion for things will die, because we've killed the part of our brain that wants that. Or allows booze to guide how we feel. Imagine if you laid all your pain and anger onto something so long, and it all comes flooding back to you. I doubt you'd feel anything at all. At this point I don't. For all I know, I could have a hatchet wound to the head, I wouldn't know.
It really got to me. James, at that time, was certainly a brother to me. He kept hanging as long as I wanted. Help me make movies. Was excited about our possibilities. It's inconceivable that he's gone now. Like another part of my history.
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