I still try to maintain some degree of “connection” to the events of the world around me. That’s not an easy task. I have more than my share of demands on my time, as do we all, so taking time to contemplate the daily news and all the things that happen to all the other people in all the other places around the world is not my natural inclination. I usually have to make an effort to do so.
For example, take an event from this week week in Salem, Oregon. If you’re not a part of that community, or if you don’t know anybody living there, the discovery of a woman’s body on an early morning by a dog walker in a neighborhood park, would not ring a bell. I’m certain that, every month in every city in every state of our country, things like this happen, they’re news for a day or two, they impact the locals momentarily, and things move forward with little or no consequences. This stuff seems common place enough that it doesn’t make the ‘mainstream’ media. Why would it? It happens all the time. Right?
But sometimes, one can make a connection if they stop long enough, regardless of whether or not they’re personally involved, and consider the incident with less detachment. The broader and more dramatic the events, such as school shootings, famine related deaths and systematic genocide clearly strike harder and louder than say, in comparison, the discovery a a lone body as in this story. But ultimately, there’s something to be learned about our own lives, our humanity, and our how we’re all somehow connected, through such a circumstance.
I’ve had a personal recollection about a trip I made to this very area of Salem outlined in my ‘drafts to polish and publish‘ collection of website entries for some time. I’m now completing it, prompted by this particular story and the whole theme of connections. I’m actually staying up all night if that’s what it takes. This is that important to me. I have to act on this now. It’s a long one, one that took place over 15 years ago. And it’s all true.
It’s brought to it’s completion now by the simple observation, if not the hope, that the otherwise “routine events” such as the one mentioned above can give us all a reason to reflect a bit more on them when they happen, and how directly or indirectly, they might impact our lives.
I hope you’ll read on.
The Background
The Background
My Aunt Violet and her daughter lived in Salem. Violet passed away last year from Cancer, with my Mother and their sister Paula at her side. I’d only talked to her on rare occasions over the past few years, but I’d spent a full week with her and my cousin Monica back in 1991, when I took off for a 6 week adventure, driving a convertible Fiat to Alberta, Canada and back.
It was only my intention to stay and visit with them for a day, but when my transmission completely stopped functioning on the freeway, about 20 miles outside of Salem, my plans changed, and my visit lengthened. Unable to shift out of 2nd gear, I managed to make the long drive at a snails pace with hazard lights blinking and arrived at their door.
Monica and her son Derrick lived with Violet at the time. Violet opened her home to me for the duration of time it took for me to get my car fixed. Monica’s boyfriend, Jimmy, who drove a red SUV bearing the same name, had some ‘connections’ with mechanics and offered to help me find a good deal on the repair costs. It was a trying time, as I was not working and had no steady income, so finances were tight, but my options were limited and I was en route to meet some good friends in Calgary for some exploring of the Alberta wilderness. A rendezvous I wanted to keep. And with the delay of the week, I still had a chance of making it.
In between arranging for the repairs and awaiting parts, I spent time with Violet and her partner C.J., taking about family and life experiences, and with Monica and Jimmy, hanging out drinking where Monica was waiting tables and going jet-skiing in a nearby river underneath the Center St. Bridge. Coincidentally, a bridge that was just a scant 2 miles away from the aforementioned park where that body was found earlier this week.
The Signs
In my earliest childhood, Violet had lived with us for some time, with Monica as a baby. My earliest clear and succinct memory is of Violet lifting me from a playpen. Monica was a playmate and always around for our family gatherings during those early years. During that week in Salem I’d gotten to know a bit more about Monica and Jimmy, and ended up getting caught up in an unexpected scam. Monica’s history included some drug related difficulties, but she’d cleaned up, was focused on caring for her son Derrick, and getting her life on track. Jimmy was an extremely likable guy, but I came to learn that many of their friends partied heavily, and he’d had his own struggles in this area as well.
I remember one particular stop we made one day in his red Jimmy. We went to see some friends of his at their house. It was in a run down part of town, and he was very direct in making me aware of the fact that they didn’t trust strangers, and not to do anything but come in, sit down, and wait for him. When we walked in there was one or two guys sitting on sofa’s and another standing in a kitchen opening. They were clearly agitated at my presence and Jimmy immediately assured them that I was cool, explaining the relation and calming their nerves. Then Jimmy and the third guy disappeared for what seemed like at least an hour, while I sat there with Zeek and Zed, afraid to say a word, the sound of a clock ticking echoing in my head, poised and ready to run out the door at the first sign of trouble.
The Setup
Jimmy did eventually return and we left promptly. On the drive back he explained that they were growing a crop of marijuana in the basement. A crop of what he refereed to as “The Kind”, a premium and highly valuable strain of cannabis. He detailed out all the little nuances of how they had to manage growing, containing power usage which sets off flags at the Electric Company, and how much money there was to be made. We talked about this in detail over beers, steaks and baked potatoes at a nearby strip bar. Yes, I actually sat ring side as a pole dancer gyrated above me while I cut through a fat riddled overcooked sirloin and ate a butter soaked spud while discussing the intricacies of growing and selling pot. And the money to be made. It was like something out of a Soprano’s episode.
And I was being “Had”. And at the time, the opportunity to get “in on the ground floor” of a potential 10x return on the investment of as little as $1,000 seemed like an ideal situation for somebody out of work and taking time to adventure a little. I didn’t see it as a big moral deal, although I’m a little more conscious of this today. At the time I figured that I’d be in the harmless and removed position of doing a bit of advanced funding, reaping significant returns with little or no risk.
If it’d just been Jimmy laying this out to me I’d have been less inclined to get involved, but I talked in length with Monica about it, and she assured me this was a great opportunity, a relative sure-thing. Pun intended. And with those reassurances and the potential, I took the bait.
The Take
When I returned from completing my trip to Canada and back, I got a call from Jimmy saying they were starting the effort and I needed to send the $1,000.00. I’d like to pretend to have been apprehensive about doing so and wary about the risks, but I didn’t think there were any and I’d removed myself from any direct association from the actions. I was rationalizing, true. But I did move forward and I did send the money.
About two weeks later I received a call from a very upbeat sounding Jimmy. Things were going well, they were getting everything in place and this was going to be a big payoff. But they needed more money to front things, as it’d been more costly up front then expected. Now, I started to get nervous. I asked to talk to Monica, and she walked me through the situation, assuring me that this was still a sure thing and all was going well, and that they’d not take advantage of family and risk my investment if it were not a certain win. So with some trepidation but remaining desirous that this all worked out, I gulped and sent another $1,000.00.
The Drop
Two weeks later and I’d not heard anything in return. My calls were not returned when messages were left and the phone was typically not answered. I was stuck and I couldn’t risk her Mom getting wise to my being involved in something unsavory, so I had to contain the desperation of my efforts to reach them and find out what was happening.
Eventually, several weeks down the line, I did manage to catch Jimmy on the phone. He was as upbeat as usual, very positive and optimistic, while I was pissed off and intensely freaked out. I all but demanded my money be returned, pressing to the point that he clearly stopped trying to contain my concerns and flat out said I’d have to wait and let this come together as planned.
That was the last time I talked to him. I’ve never talked to her or seen her again since then. And that was over 15 years ago.
The Fallout
I learned within the year that she and Jimmy were doing drugs again, and she was in and out of jail and rehab programs. I’ve carried a grudge about it to this very day. I felt betrayed beyond words, that somebody I shared infancy with, childhood with and blood with might go so far as to con me.
In many ways, the whole situation reminded me of the movie “Drugstore Cowboy”, where the main characters are junkies, and where there’s absolutely nothing of value to them beyond the next high. Responsibly does not exist and funding a fix is the driving force in their lives. Family connections are not important, hell, friends and co-junkies are disposable, as illustrated by the scene in which a character portrayed by Heather Graham OD’s, and their only action is to abandon the body in a home they broke into.
The Connection
When I’ve thought of Monica and Jimmy, I’ve been reminded of these characters. And when I’d hear stories of her through the family grapevine, of her drug abuse, I’d have an almost “serves you right” view on things. Yet still, when I’d hear she was trying to clean up, I’d empathetically wish her well in my mind, still angry at the betrayal but compassionate enough to recognize that there’s an illness and addiction at work.
I’ve long since gotten over the loss of the money, and accepted the betrayal. Only now, I have to accept her death.
The body found in the park this week was Monica. My cousin. She was 43 years old. She was found face up off a trail by a dog walker. The circumstances were reported as “Suspicious” as there were no signs of harm or abuse. She was just there. Dead.
A toxicology report has yet to be submitted and it’ll take several weeks. Sadly, I can’t help but assume it’ll be drug related. From what I last heard, heroin possession was her last reported offense. And given the brief exposure I’ve had to the people I met during that trip, the image of her being abandoned or discarded after OD’ing would not surprise me. In fact if it’s not something along those lines, I’ll feel a great relief that my worst assumptions were incorrect.
This was her mother’s worst nightmare. And for that, I’m glad she didn’t live to see it happen.
The Reflection
I don’t know quite how to process this, or how to feel. To be brutally honest, I’m a bit detached. We were not close at all, and yet we were family. And due to this unique situation and that experience years ago, we shared not only a swingset as children but a betrayal of trust as adults. One I often wondered if she ever thought of or regretted. I’ll never know.
And although I’m still not quite feeling a personal sense of loss, like every other person that falls to such a fate, we also shared a core human potential. Something that, for whatever reasons, she was unable to reach or at least to maintain. Something that I believe exists in every case like this. But this time, this person, I knew. I was around her as a toddler while she was an infant. This case, like them all, was at one time, very innocent, and barring some chemical or biological trait, not pre-destined to end up meeting an end such as this.
What hits me the hardest through this is less of an emotional reaction on family level, but more of the thought that every time a small news story of this type comes and goes, life goes on for most of us except for a few, who’s lives will be forever changed. Such as that of her son, and her surviving father Bud. And also for me. This will leave an impression that lasts longer and deeper then the loss of some transient funds or the sense of betrayal that was, in the grand scheme of things, more the result of any number of events in her own life that brought her to take that action, and to ultimately arrive at this conclusion as well.
Perhaps, in a positive way, things like this could impact more then just a few people. Perhaps, taking the time to absorb and consider the bigger picture the next time something like this crosses your path, being that of the greater human potential, of all the various circumstances, environments, choices and outcomes that play into a final outcome like this, might give us a stronger sense of appreciation for those around us, and the opportunities we’ve had and can create that spare us from being just another local story.
I don’t know. I’m tired, it’s late, and I’m sorting this all out.
But I do know, as I said in the beginning, that it’s not my natural inclination to really attach to or connect to things at this level and think about the big picture. But I’m making an effort to do so.
More so tonight then I have in some time.