He wore a pair of runners. On one he had written, "Jesus", on the other, "Christ". His hair was a true orange/red and spiky, growing out a mohawk. His skin, freckled and pale. He was outrageous by anyone's standards, and unpredictable. Mostly he was fun. So much fun. He was the last of my innocence in many ways. We called it dating, but it was really just talking, laughing, punk rock music listening, back tickling, hand holding. Still, there was so much passion there. We planned to run away to Montreal. We discussed every detail, how we would hop a train and stay with his friend Platinum when we got there. Having a friend named Platinum and being a stowaway on a freight train didn't seem farfetched with him. Nothing much did.
It was Friday the 13th, but for the life of me I can not remember what year. It could have been 8 or 9 years ago. I just can't figure it out.
I still remember the phone call.
"Did you hear?"
"No. Fuck. No"
It was the only thing he ever did that I could not believe, could not comprehend.