I moved the family up here about 10 years ago.
Next door to the house I bought was Kevin. I was working on the driveway one day, lining it by hand with big fuckoff boulders. No bullshit, each one took me an hour or more to roll down the hill. Initially I thought they were leftover from dynamiting the mountain. Turns out, it wasn’t from dynamite at all. They’re glacial boulders. Wild shit.
Anyway, that one day, I’m rolling boulders and lining the driveway… Kevin pulls up next door blasting MY GIRL from his car windows. Talkin bout my giiirrrrl… My girl!!!
Kevin gets out the car. He sees me rolling boulders. He doesn’t even ask my goddamn name. He just yells down the side of the mountain… YO… YOU SMOKE???
Yeah, Kevin. I smoke.
So I go up to the house. This motherfucker pulls out a 2lb bag. We reminisce about the old days of 718 and 212. He tells me stories about Harlem, I tell him stories about BK and Queens. 30 years between us, easy. But the stories are exactly the same.
Anyway, long story short, we become best friends despite the age difference. My family becomes his family, his family becomes mine. We eat together, we party together, we laugh together and cry together. For years it carried on like this.
Then one day, Kevin says he’s gotta go away for the summer. Says he’s gotta meet up with some old friends and needs me to keep an eye out on his family and the house.
I’m on board. Anything for my friend and his family. Let me know and I got you taken care of, right?
A week later, his wife shows up at my door at 6am. Kevin’s fucking dead. Laying in the bathroom, choked up on his own blood.
He said the cancer was in remission. He lied.
I honestly don’t know how many years it’s been since that morning. Seven. Eight. I don’t know.
All I know is that I have not since then made any new friends.
Nor will I.
RIP Kevin .