Adam Marshall died
Maybe you know who that is, very likely, however, you don’t. He was 19 and he lived in Odessa. He got shot at a club in the process of something he wasn’t part of. Other than that, I don’t know anything else for sure.
I mean that literally. I don’t know anything else about this guy except the above, and I know that from the notoriously unreliable reporting of the local paper.
The weirdest thing is that I read it and I was interested. I read it and I don’t know why, but I cared.
Somehow, it just seemed like the craziest thing that Adam Marshall was dead. He’s my age, and maybe I went to school with him. If I did, I don’t think I had any classes with him. If he went to my high school and he’s the guy I’m thinking of, I just saw him around every now and then and recognized his face when I saw it. That’s it. In two years, that’s all the contact I ever had with him. If we had a direct conversation in or related to school, I can’t recall it.
However, the other weird thing is that if Adam Marshall was who I think he was, I had a conversation with him last week. Friday, actually. A guy came into my store, bought forty dollars worth of scratch offs and I almost charged him 50 dollars for it. I fucked up, which isn’t that odd. But he was cool about it and left. He had a name tag on (I either didn’t read it or didn’t record the information, just that it was there) and was driving a work truck. He had a job, probably related to the oil field in one way or another because I remember thinking, “How sad, this is how most people in my generation is going to end up. Still around here, lives tied to the oil business.”
I opened the paper yesterday, and found out I was wrong. Even if I’m confusing two extremely vague acquaintances, not all of us get to live miserable, invisible little lives. Some of us don’t even get that. In high school, I wouldn’t have cared one bit. Who else would die that I knew? It was either someone from school or someone old enough that it was expected. But now, it just doesn’t feel right.
“He’s my age. People my age aren’t supposed to die.”
But we do. And for some reason, I guess that makes me care about him.
This is a real blog entry, maybe my first. It’s to be dated May 15th, 2006. The specific time doesn’t matter.