“We are trying to locate Peter. On July 24th, he boarded the passenger boat Hiryu at 8pm local time, traveling from Naha, Okinawa, Japan to Nagoya, Japan. He was last seen at 9pm, and was discovered missing at 9:30pm. It was dark, the waves were 3’ swells, and the boat was approximately two miles from the shore of Ie Jima island.
At this point, Pete’s parents believe that Peter died while in the water. We hope he may be staying with friends in Japan. Could you please send us (or call us with) any contacts you might know of Peter’s friends everywhere.”
It’s been probably ten years since I loved Pete. And it wasn’t one of those serious loves--no, it was more like a confusing, precious learning experience with lots of potent memories--so typical of the infatuations of one’s early twenties. I don’t think we’ve corresponded once since we broke up, but I have been tracking his adventures through a mutual friend who loves us both. At one point he was traveling the world and finding odd jobs, such as working at a Chinese publishing company where he read American best sellers and made recommendations for Asian publication, or at least that’s how the glamorous occupation appeared through the lens of a nostalgic old flame.
I knew Pete before he’d caught his international travel bug. I knew him when he was all about listening to the Flaming Lips, hiking with his two short-hair German pointers (Luke and Leia), quitting crappy jobs, finding the perfect inexpensive snack food, soaking at local swimming holes, dying his hair flame-tipped orange, getting a girlie tattoo, drinking cheap beer, and taking road trips in his sexy, red Buick convertible.
The funniest thing he ever told me is that a group of his best high-school buddies went on a camping trip to the Grand Canyon, and at the last minute he wasn’t allowed to go along with them. I can’t remember why, but they ran out of water somehow on their multi-day hike, so they were cotton-mouthed and pissing sludge by the time they were “rescued” days later. Pete told me that he was green with envy, because they had gone through such an adventure together and he had missed out on the experience. At age 20, this sentiment struck me as crazy, because as much as I loved camping, I liked my adventures tame. (Probably why we never made it as a couple.) Now that I think about it, it seems less shocking that he would die in some bizarre way--washed off a boat in an oriental sea. I’m not going to say that he would have wanted it that way--he wouldn’t have. He would have wanted to live to tell the story.
I’m afraid to go to his memorial service, afraid because I have this sinking feeling that Pete will pull a Tom Sawyer on us and show up, smiling his funny smile and only half aware that everyone assembled is grieving the loss of him. And we would all be angry and happy and furious for the worry that he had caused. And I can’t bear the thought of him getting into so much trouble for just being his adventurous, carefree self. Or, maybe what I’m really afraid of is that we’ll all show up secretly hoping for his miraculous return, only to feel like tragic fools when we realize that such an appearance is a fantasy and he really is gone.
A mutual friend said to me, “We loved him best.” It’s true. We loved him at that delicate and beautiful age when we were just discovering our adult selves and our place in the world and you could first see the basic shape of our lives forming.
Rest in peace, sweet friend.
Peter Vlach (March 26, 1976 - July 24, 2006)
Pete when I knew him
[Both images from his memorial website]
No comments:
Post a Comment