#2

Joseph Greenwood. Quite a pal, he was. As odd guy, really, but a good friend. I met him my first year of college (probably his third or fourth), taking some math class -- Advanced Algebra or Calculus or something. He was trying to pass it for the third time, relentlessly seeking those four math credits needed for the core curriculum. I helped him that year, and he nearly passed it, with a score of 65 -- his highest mark yet.

I remember that week in, week out, he'd come by the dorms driving his old blue Corsica and we'd go somewhere. At first, the intention was to study, but of course those turned into nights at Tucker's getting burgers and beers, sometimes followed by a strip club, or sometimes we'd just go back to the dorms and play cards with our friends. Often we'd have more people with us in our nights out, but it was always me and him -- the rest was just supporting cast. One Friday afternoon he came by and told me we should head off to Cleveland watch the Lions play that Sunday. We went, just like that. Got the tickets, some beers, watched the game, pissed off the Browns fans and had a hoot. Of course we won too, but who cared. It wasn't the point anyway.

One time he showed up at class, and showed me something in his bookbag. He lifted up that heavy math book, and there was a whip under it. I made some joke about S & M and about him being a freak. He just laughed it off. After class, we went out to the quad and he cracked the leather of his whip against some old pine tree, shaking the cones off its branches. When the public safety guy came over, mace in hand to get us to stop, we couldn't help but laugh. I had no idea why he had a whip, or how he learned how to use it, but that's just the kind of guy Joe was. You never knew much about him, except that it was great to have him around. He made you laugh, and made you forget the serious things about life, except living.

This other night we were at the Emerald Saloon -- it was amateur night, so it was a week night, but it was crowded. Of course, none of the strippers were actual amateurs. They just came from out of town from their own strip clubs to make a little road show and pretend they were new at this. The fake tans and plastic bodies made it clear who they were though. But this one blonde, she was smoking the competition. Looked natural, and maybe even was natural. She looked like those girls you read about in Penthouse letters who strip at night to pay for the college they attend during the day. The crowd was gathering 'round her, just wanting to see her dance. There was a line of people with 10s in their hands, ready to string them on her panties, just to get closer to her and slightly touch her body. Joe went there with a single, put it her panties and said something in her ears. She looked at me, and with her fingers commanded me to approach. When I got close to her, she gave me her neck to smell, and nibbled my ears, whispered something hot to me, and then gave me a quick kiss on the lips before proceeding to the next guy. I don't know what Joe said to her, but I lost my shyness towards women that day. I could no longer view women as objects after that, because the objectified woman position was already taken by some blonde named Nikki or Vicki or perhaps Terry.

As my college years passed, Joe started showing up less and less at the dorms. We'd go out less, play cards less, do less crazy things... But we'd still have a ball anytime we were out. Until he just stopped coming over, and I was too busy to call him. I heard about him occasionally from this or that person, and someone once told me they saw him sniffing powder in some joint. I didn't believe it when I heard it, and I believed it even less when I heard he OD'd and died in some scum motel in West Detroit. The hooker that was with him called the cops, cleaned his wallet and bolted. When the PD finally got there, it was too late. I couldn't help but thinking that it was too late for me too -- I should've given him a call once or twice that past year, and I should've tried to hang out with him. But I know it would've been pointless. Joe lived his life, and he wouldn't stop living it because of me. He taught me how to live mine, but no one could teach him how to live his.

He did end up passing math, the semester following the one he took with me. He never did study, but he wasn't a cheater, so I'm sure he passed on his own means. I said we should celebrate his passing the course, and he just said there was no need, because he still hadn't stopped celebrating the first class he passed. I think his life was the same way -- lived on his own accord, ended without a last hoorah. No need for one. His entire life must've been a continuous hoorah; for him and everyone who met him. Good ol' Joe. Surely hell is a better place now, with him partying there.