Loss of a dear Friend

   Carey Curtis was a man I met the same way I have met a few of my friends.  I saw him in a local coffee shop, very quietly drinking coffee by himself.  After having noticed his presence several times, I decided to introduce myself.  I have no idea how long ago that was.  I wasn't marking the date.
    What followed, over the next couple years, was a closeness - well, you may get an idea in minute.  We had many all night sessions, getting to know each other, neither one of us asking anything from the other, or wanting.  He had previously been in the navy, been an industrial supply salesman, and seeing that the interminable hours sitting in a car was hurting his back, became a lumber jack.  After a tree fell on him, he moved to Anchorage, where he occasionally worked for the Teamster's union, and occasionally felled a tree for a friend - odd jobs, in general.  He got along with people without any trouble, but felt more of an affinity for animals, complaining frequently of animals kept in small cages, or dogs or cats kept outside in the cold, or otherwise neglected.
    After some years, he became disenchanted with the coffee shop, citing bad lighting and less than mediocre food, and began attending, as a watcher, bowling and softball games, offering encouragement and advice to partipants. His attention was appreciated by many.
    Sometime after I'd met him, he became a co-resident with two cats.  Both strays.  Can't say he owned them, and they didn't believe he did either, coming and going pretty much as they pleased.
    Anyway, to make a long story much shorter, last December, he shot himself.
    The previous year, he had a lesion on his neck, that kept growing and growing.  He had doctors look at it and the doctors diagnosed it as a type of staff infection, operable, and probably the operation being followed up with cosmetic surgery.  He applied for SSI, trying to get the operation funded.  The SSI application was rejected.  He put in another application, that resulted in a letter received a week after his demise that said a hearing to review the previous decision was scheduled for the next month.
    Last December, I received an e-mail from his old girlfriend, apparently still a friend, asking me to check on him.  The night before, he had spoken to her for two hours saying that the hole in his neck was the size of his fist, and that he was unhappy in Alaska, cold and lonely.  I called him several times, offering to buy him dinner at a local chinese restaurant{he had never allowed me to buy him a meal, even when he was at his brokest), with no answer.  I went buy his trailer on the way to work on Monday morning and noticed which  lights were on. That day, I called him, leaving a message on his answering machine that if he just didn't want to talk to anyone to turn off the kitchen light and turn on another light.  I  went to his trailer that night and the same lights were on.  I called his answering machine from his front steps, using my cell phone, and said, "If you don't come to the door right now, I'm calling the cops."  He never did and I called.
    Soon, I received an e-mail from his sister, saying she was on her way up, to take care of his effects.  Another e-mail, later, asked if there were some state agency that would clean up after a shooting death, and that she didn't think she would be able to handle the situation.  Reluctantly, my fingers typed, "I'll do it".
    After I typed it, I read the note to Susan, mentally phrasing the obvious question.  I didn't want to ask her to help.  I wanted to ask if she wanted to.  Or just give moral support.  Before I had even voiced the question, she said, "I want to help."  
    We put the job off for a couple days, each of us pointing out to the other that the mess was probably much more than either one of us could imagine.  When we finally braced ourselves to attack this onerous task, we went to his trailer and found a blood soaked mattress.  We cut up some trash bags and wrapped the mattress before we loaded into Susan's van before it went to the dump.  Carey would have appreciated the dignity of the wrapped mattress, and he would have laughed at the two clowns that loaded the slippery, bulky,  unmanageable mass into the van.
    Carey's sister, Merle, arrived with her husband, Bob.  We sorted through lots of stuff, while we entertained.  The night they left for the airport and we hugged and said our goodbyes, I said to Susan, "I feel like Carey left with them."
    The first e-mail I received from Merle was signed, "Merle, Bob, and Carey."  When I expressed my surprise and told Merle about my comment to Susan, Merle said, "I know, I could see it in your face, and I feel like he did come with us."
    Later, she e-mailed me again, and said, "You know, going through Carey's papers, every time I see your name written, your name is followed, "my best friend".
    I don't know what day he died, and I don't much care.  I wasn't marking the date.