I recently happened into some photos from college that included my senior year roommates Chuck (center) and Patrick (right). Together with our friend Albaugh, we were the self-proclaimed "Newton Posse", a name taken from the ungentrified street on which we shared a house off campus. Before I proceed, please note that the above photo was taken in 1997 -- eighteen months before the Supreme Court declared white guys in collared shirts making ironic gang signs a violation of habeas caucasius obnoxious.It was cool seeing the old pals. Especially Chuck Silva, who I hadn't seen or spoken with in several years. Even before rooming together, he and I were close friends. Freshman year our dorm rooms were across the hall and, the following year, Chuck was one of the few upperclassmen stuck in the freshman dorm where I was an R.A. So we hung out quite a lot. He was one of the few friends that got my sense of humor enough to be a great audience for my dumb jokes and reciprocate by cracking me up on a regular basis.
Living with The Chuck senior year wasn't always easy. He stayed up late, slept later and was an even bigger slob than Patrick and me. Especially in the kitchen. For the most part, though, we had a great time in that house together. One of our biggest shared interests was watching and talking about films. Like many guys in college around the time Kevin Smith and Quentin Tarantino were breaking out, we talked about movies constantly: what we liked, didn't like and how we'd make our own films if given the chance. Chuck's tastes were always a little more, let's say, "non-mainstream" than Patrick or me, but we loved his enthusiasm.
For as close as we were during school, Chuck was one of those friends that I didn't keep in frequent contact with after graduation. But also one that I felt like I could reconnect with any time and pick up where we left off. Or so I thought. To be completely honest, a major factor in our college pals' inability to keep track of Chuck was his regular abuse of alcohol and, we suspected, more. Without rationalizing or going into details, I'll say that Chuck came by his destructive habits honestly. He was trying in vain to escape some heavyweight personal issues that hung over him since our freshman year.
The last I'd heard from Chuck was an email in late 2006 which he sent while taking film courses at a small college in Savannah. The exchange was brief, but to my knowledge Chuck got himself straight and was the one out of our senior year triumvirate actually pursuing the ambition to make movies. So when I was inspired by the above photo to plug Chuck's name into Google early Friday morning, I was equal parts pleased and unsurprised to see him attached as script supervisor on an independent film called "Johnny Appleweed" (the title says it all, no?).
Going to the film's site, however, my stomach dropped when next to Chuck's credit it said "In Memoriam". I blinked hard, furrowed my brow and looked closer at the laptop screen, but the words did not change. Chuck ... died? He's dead?
Died died? Dead dead? Chuck?
I didn't waste too much in denial hoping the deceased was someone else with the same name. Here was a movie about one of Chuck's favorite subjects that was shot in his home town. It had to be him. I asked some other friends if they heard anything remotely connected with this horrible news, but none had. The crushing realization that Chuck was probably gone seemed as bad as the regrettable consensus that such a close pal fell off our collective radar a long time ago.
Through the convenient immediacy of email and the candid generosity of friends who worked on the film with Chuck, it was only a few hours before I got the dreaded confirmation. Chuck's substance abuse was far worse than any of us knew or cared to recognize. Some time in early 2007, it became too much for his body to handle and his organs failed quickly. Chuck's family honored his request not to have a service or, apparently, to alert old friends. It saddens me most that those were his wishes and I know it'll haunt me for a while.
Despite being out of touch, I was told that Chuck spoke of his college pals frequently and fondly. It wasn't much of a comfort, but I certainly appreciated hearing it. More importantly, I was assured he knew the end was near and made peace with his demons before his time came. I shared all this information in an email to old friends of Chuck who I thought might want to take a moment and remember him well in the days to come.
I hadn't heard from or about Chuck for a couple years, but always took for granted that he was a phone call or email away. So the fact that he isn't and hasn't been for two years has resulted in in a strange emotional equation: Shock times Grief divided by Guilt plus 24 months of interest at a fixed rate of Blissful Ignorance.
There's no clever button to end this post. Instead, I'll say thanks for reading and an send a warm e-hug to friends or relatives of Chuck who might stumble on this blog while trying to catch up with an old pal.
