Bad Things Happening to Good People

Vast miles of distance seperate the towns in central Montana. It is too common to be driving down roads with no cell phone service or change of scenery. Drifting off into the undulating depths of the immensity of the state, roads give amazing vantage points to a visceral notion contained within each human, which is to transcend the mundane and obligatorily discover within one's self the all-to-real frailities, foibles and misgivings which make human's unique. Far into the recesses of time and space, the roads will drift, endless and enduring, miles of forgotten track with no one insight for hours.

Thus, on the morning of July 5th, 2005, Brandon Briceno ended his life on a treachorous stretch of highway 30 miles south of Martinsdale, on a lonely and unsanctimonious pitch of land that has forever changed my friends and I.

The weekend before had been the most productive, it seemed, of my entire summer. I was able to hang out with my best friends, as well as two of my best friends older brothers, Brandon included, in the bars in Harlowtown, Montana. We had a few close calls, with Brandon picking a series of fights with drunk bargoers. Drinking all night, Brandon and I stumbled into a blue Isuzu Rodeo at about 3:30 in the morning. After eating a free meal at the local town center, we were off into the night, driving home through the splattered Montana dark. At one point in the trek, for a piss break, Brandon and I stood out in the middle of Montana, staring up at the big stars that were out. Mouth agape, Brandon was stunned. "I've never seen so many stars before," he told me, cock firmly in his hand. I smile back on it now, thinking about how much it meant for him to see the big sky, the kind of sky he couldn't see in LA. And then we were home, and the next morning, we roused ourselves early for breakfast and headed up to Castle Lake for some swimming and fishing. Brandon was in his element, casting unsuccessfully a myriad of times into the crystal clear waters. Later that night, as the annual soccer game was taking place, Brandon, who was far-less inclined as a player than anyone on the field, scored three goals with his hiking boots on. Then, we all retired to the cabin for some more drinking and some more poker.

I can still see Ryan standing talking with Sean, telling Sean the news. And when he tells me, I look at Sean, I look at Ryan, and we hug, then I fall to the ground, staring blankly at the entire world which has come into focus. "How do we tell Sean? June, Kevin and little Jessie?" I can't quite comprehend it yet, but I feel different, able to comprehend that life will never, ever be the same. So we all sit out on the grass for a while, crying, and the word gets round to the proper channels. This is no fucking joke, Brandon is dead. And I miss him, and when his brother wears that hat that he wore that weekend, it sends shivers down my spine, the uncanny resemblance and all that. And when I think about that day I sat in the bunkhouse staring at his shoes, and feeling him talking to me, telling me not to worry, that it was his time, I can find some solace in hoping he went out when he wanted, but he went out when no one else wanted him to. It's not a choice, we are forced to say goodbye. No matter how infantile it sounds, we all should be able to go out when we want, within our own realm. Unfortunately, one person I knew didn't, so now, I tell people what they mean to me everyday, so if there are last words to be spoken, mine were of joy and love. I never got to say goodbye, and no one else did either, so now, why can't we say goodbye with meaning and thought and caring. Why can't we say goodbye and really mean it, in case it's the last time?