John was my boyfriend’s best friend. He lived out of state for a few years, I only knew of him through the stories my boyfriend told. They were like brothers. I was just getting home from some night of running around town when my boyfriend pulled up behind me. There in the passenger seat was a young man with dark wavy shoulder length hair, piercing brown eyes and the scent of patchouli clinging to him. My boyfriend introduced us. “Hey little mama, nice to finally lay my eyes on you.” John was a gentleman. We drove around for hours before settling at another friend’s apartment. By the end of the night we were laughing like old pals, walking to the gas station for chocolate.

We were connected immediately as we were both widows to my boyfriend’s band. John loved reggae, Phish, and Lil’ Kim. I knew nothing of this world. I was Indie rock, The Pixies and X-Files. He took it upon himself to be my guide, he would make me bootleg tapes of Phish, the Grateful Dead, and so much more, if I would be his seamstress. That winter we spent hours in his attic like bedroom, him as DJ, as I would split the legs of his pants and sew in patchworks of corduroy. We planned great designs for pants for months. Every weekend we traversed fabric stores, thrift stores, and church rummage sales looking for the elusive yellow corduroy. “We’ll get it Little Mama. It’s out there somewhere.” As the piles of brightly colored squares grew larger, my interest in this new music grew. John took great time to label each tape with great detail and made sure to point out the small intricacies in his favorite songs.

In the evenings we often hung out listening to band practice, dancing, laughing, bitching, but always hunting for chocolate. He was huge stoner, I was just a chocolate fiend; this was a great arrangement. I would be sober, so I drove. He would be blazed, so he would entertain. We laughed our way through grocery stores, Wal-Mart, and gas stations. My car held a faint smell of patchouli well into the spring when the fresh outside air blew it away.

Life in our small town was rough for him. He stuck out, so the police loved giving him the shake down. He was clever, so they never found a damn thing. Well, always a wallet full of pictures of Lil’ Kim. At times I felt like I was his guardian, keeping him safe in my car, or just by my side. Together, we were left alone, but if he was out solo he was almost always stopped and harassed.

When Phish came a state away that summer, the whole group was in a frenzy. I was the only one to have a steady job so I knew I could get a ticket. My boyfriend had new court costs to pay off, DWI’s are costly in many ways. But John managed to afford a ticket. He earned a little spending money by posing nude for the drawing classes at the local community college. By this time he had a ratty head of dreads, and hardly ever showered, so he caused quite a stir on the campus. Soon the two of us got our tickets for Phish. My boyfriend was beside himself with anger, Phish was his favorite band so he felt betrayed being left behind. But I was not a sugar-mama, so I went guilt free. Five of us piled into a VW van, and had the scariest, yet funniest road trip ever. “Little mamma, you are in for it tonight!” John was right. We had a blast. Twirling, dancing just enjoying. I was one of the most memorable concerts I’ve attended, to this day.

A few months later my boyfriend and I broke up. John let me know we were still friends. He called the next evening. “Man, it is so Jamiroquai tonight” his famous words to start a great road trip. We grabbed as many people as we could, and drove off to the field out of town. We laughed and danced all night. The only rule; we could ONLY listen to Jamiroquai. His patchouli hugs and companionship helped lessen my heart ache.

The next few years were a blur with him. We saw each other less, but we had some quality time for sure. It was a swirl of sewing, a Santana concert, music, log cabins, laying on our backs starring at the stars, and the best milkshake ever. Chocolate ice-cream, ding-dongs, chocolate syrup, all into a blender. Perfection. Again, he was a stoner…. I had no good excuse besides a fierce chocolate problem. He laughed when I dreaded my hair. He laughed harder when I cut them off days later.  We stayed friends.

I moved away. We still talked. Every time I came to town we would eat too much chocolate as I re-patched his pants. Many a long weekend was spent in his room, him playing me the latest music he found, while I made him a stack of hats, bags, shirts and skirts for him to trade at Rainbow. A week before he left he made me drive him to the city so he could get enough patchouli for the trip. We only listened to Jamiroquai.  My car smelled like him for months.

As that year went by, I missed him. I moved again. When I finally heard he was home, I left within the hour to go see him. When I saw those piercing eyes before me, my heart went sick. Something was off. I saw something was wrong. I wondered if he didn't want to be back home. Did he no longer need his old friends?  I was wrong, my ex-boyfriend clued me in. Heroine.

We tried. Maybe we told ourselves we tried. He lied. He said he quit. He didn’t. I tried to come around more. But I never knew what to say. Trying to act normal of course didn’t work. Trying to tell him how horrible it was didn’t work. I cried so many times telling him I missed him, as did so many others. But this did not work. Months later we started seeing track marks. He moved from snorting to shooting. He lied more. We were all so confused, helpless, pissed off. I would see him out, but still missed him. I smelled his patchouli, but couldn’t see my friend.

It was a cool April night a great show came to town, I was digging around looking for my jacket, when the phone rang. The world really did stop. I shook. I was so stunned I couldn’t cry. He died. Heroine won, we all lost. The funeral home was crawling with dreads, and patchwork. We all stayed together all day, the tears, stories and laughter spilled over to dawn.

He still haunts me. I will always know I was lucky to know him. I am still looking for yellow corduroy. I hear his laughter, his drawn out “duuuuude.” I see him, his face, in so many places and want to yell out his name. Every time I smell patchouli, I think of him, and I miss him. I've come to hate the smell because it draws up such grief. Guilt always follows my grief. I still don’t know what I should have done, but I wish I would have done something more. The situation always seemed so insane, like it wasn’t really happening. But the thing is, it wasn’t a ‘situation’ it was a person, and he was my friend. How it all got so out of control I’ll never know. I’ll never know if there was a way to stop him that I just didn’t know about. He died, so we all failed him, I failed my friend. He made my life better, but I was helpless in saving his. This will always haunt me.