I got a call from my dad tonight. Somebody I know died. He's not really family. He's not really a friend. He's not an acquaintance. All I know is that he played a part in my life, whether is was important or not doesn't seem to matter. Just that he did, and now he's dead.
His name is Jake.
A friend of his is getting married this weekend. When he was at the bachelor party up in Superior, he left his wallet at a bar. When he returned to get it, seven guys kicked the shit out of him until he was laying unconscious and bleeding on the ground. Then they started over again. When they got to the hospital they had to take him into surgery to get blood clots out of his brain. They found another. And another. And another. He's in a coma and will never wake up. He's gone. Away. Beaten so badly that he's unrecognizable.
He is related to my aunt and uncle, and I know his family well enough. They're at the family reunion every year. He's a sweet, gorgeous, fun-loving guy. He was one of the first people I ever got drunk off my ass around. He's also the one who introduced me to how much I hate Yague.
He's hooked up to a respirator. It's the only thing keeping him alive. The police have to do an autopsy. The hospital needs to harvest his organs. A wedding needs to go on.
When I was on the phone, I was dry-eyed. I chewed my lip a bit, but that's almost sorta normal. When I hung up, I cried, then laughed, then cried some more. I felt stupid. Crazy.
And Jake...
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