Friday, January 30, 2004
Denny
I saw it on the door of the mail room at the college where I teach. I'm surprised I even stopped to read it, but it was one of those things. Denny had died.
It couldn't have been good. He was too young. Poor Caralee, I thought, and didn't they have a kid or two?
I knew them years ago, when I was a surly teen, working in the theatre building of that same college. Cara worked as a secretary for my mentor, Jack, and Denny occasionally hauled set pieces around. I saw him occasionally and usually stopped to say hello. He always seemed younger, healthier than Cara...although she was always the one more filled with color and energy. I studied the notice. It said nothing about how he died.
I pondered it for a moment but had to go teach. After class my attention was grabbed by a photograph in an art show in the gallery. The show had been open for a few days, but I hadn't found my way in there yet. The picture was black and white, taken by a student at a local high school, of an old barn. I found myself drawn to it. Sudddenly I found myself thinking again of Denny.
I left the gallery and sought out another teacher, who had known Cara years ago. She told me what had happened to Denny. Apparently, he killed himself. Hung himself in the barn.
I saw it on the door of the mail room at the college where I teach. I'm surprised I even stopped to read it, but it was one of those things. Denny had died.
It couldn't have been good. He was too young. Poor Caralee, I thought, and didn't they have a kid or two?
I knew them years ago, when I was a surly teen, working in the theatre building of that same college. Cara worked as a secretary for my mentor, Jack, and Denny occasionally hauled set pieces around. I saw him occasionally and usually stopped to say hello. He always seemed younger, healthier than Cara...although she was always the one more filled with color and energy. I studied the notice. It said nothing about how he died.
I pondered it for a moment but had to go teach. After class my attention was grabbed by a photograph in an art show in the gallery. The show had been open for a few days, but I hadn't found my way in there yet. The picture was black and white, taken by a student at a local high school, of an old barn. I found myself drawn to it. Sudddenly I found myself thinking again of Denny.
I left the gallery and sought out another teacher, who had known Cara years ago. She told me what had happened to Denny. Apparently, he killed himself. Hung himself in the barn.
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