September 1 is bad for me, the door guy says. Oh, why is that? I ask. My best friend died on this day, three years ago. It was on his birthday. About fifteen feet from my front door. Holy shit, man. What happened? We were out partying, he was drunk, I tell him, hey just crash at my place. Me and my girlfriend lived on the 4th floor of these lofts. I leave the door open, but my roommate comes home around three, locks it.
Next day, we hear a knock on the door. Cop. My girlfriend answers it. I can’t hear her, but I can tell she’s gettin shaken up about something. I go to the door. What’s up? The cop takes me aside, asks me questions. Then he tells me, I don’t know how to tell you this, but your friend is dead a couple floors down. Looks like he fell over the railing. Broke his neck.
Do I know him? I ask. He says, I don’t know. Maybe. Do you have a picture of him? Yeah, let me check my phone. He shows me a picture of him, a minute later. Yeah, I say, I recognize him. Nice lookin kid. Did he have a girlfriend at the time? No, he didn’t. Was with a girl for five years. How old was he again? I ask.
26 years old. Died on his birthday.
From my heart to yours,
Clint Curtis. Bartender.