El Paso

Once upon a time, in a life far, far ago, I was a Coastie. There are many stories about this brief, but formative, era, but this story is about El Paso. You see, I just found out that El Paso killed himself a couple of years ago. And I am surprisingly sad about it.

El Paso and I met in Radioman school. He is likely one of, if not the, best looking person I have ever been romantically linked with. But his appeal wasn’t only skin deep; in addition to being coupled with that undefinable quality which makes one sexy instead of just attractive, he was funny in that rapier wit, self-deprecating combo that I find a sure path to my attention. “Shit eating grin’ was the phrase which came to everyone’s mind when they talked about him. Nowadays, I would assume he was Latino: he wasn’t, but he had that beautiful olive complexion, black hair, black eyes. A Texas swagger that landed somewhere between cowboy and muscle car. He was smart, earnest. He was tender and sweet, vulnerable in increments which could hook you. He cared about doing well and being well regarded. And terribly troubled. Every bit of the best kind of donut I like to overeat.

He was a kid at maybe 23, 24, but I was a kidder at 18. Just recently 18, not even marinated in it. But, you know, in some ways I was precocious, and in some ways I suffered from the fallacy of youth – I thought myself very jaded and worldly, despite the evidence. In high school, I had not been accustomed to male attention. I was probably getting it and didn’t understand it. To the degree I had it and knew it, it was often the snake that bit me. The point is that while in Radioman school, surrounded by literally dozens of bored young men with few in-house women, I received a lot of attention. Attention for which I had developed no skills and did not know how to manage.

There were a few in whom I was reciprocally interested. He was one. El Paso flirted with me right away, but I thought he was teasing me. On no planet would I have imagined that this godlike beauty with a personality to match would find anything of interest in me, or notice me at all. As time went on, the attention became more serious, more clear. I likely would have done much of anything to have had that attention – rob a convenience store, skip all my A school classes, whatever.

The problem was – throughout our association – he was inconstant. He would find someone to cover my watch so that I could hang out with him one night and then not speak to me for weeks. He would rent a hotel room off base for us for a weekend, and then tell me he was too old for me. Push and pull, pull and push. I finally figured out that the pull came with a bit of drinking. And then he left, graduated. And I fell in love with someone else, the Cook, another story.

A number of years later, when I was living in my first SF apartment, in some way lost to memory, we were in touch. He then sent me a bizarre letter, which I probably still have. In it, he told me how much he loved me, but then accused me of always needing someone, of always being attached. It was odd, precisely because it was so untrue. I had been single most of my adult life, and then. Plus, I wouldn’t have really thought that our relationship, if it could be called that, ever got to a point of mutual familiarity that he could say he knew me, much less loved me. I was flattered, offended, confused in equal measure.

Time passed. We had another round of contact in maybe 93-ish. He called me out of the blue. He had been living in WA, which I knew, and had become a farrier. He was coming to Sacramento for some kind of horse thing. He wanted me to come join him for the weekend. It was the middle of the night – he wanted me to come right then. I promised to come the next day. And I did. It was another time when I thought…. I thought it was something. Such declarations, such revelations. And then he left, not quite disappearing, but again inconstant.

I can’t remember how long after, but I drove to Bellingham to see him. In my mind, to surprise him. When I arrived, I let him know I was there and I would come to see him. His car was there, but he never responded. Never called me back, never answered the door – clearly, intentionally avoiding me. I was confused, shocked even.

For years after, I would occasionally have not-dreams in which I would find him looking for me, intensely. It was clear he had been looking for me for years, and in the dream, I was so surprised by it. In the not-dreams – a dream with qualities that make it clear it’s something far more real – he would tell me how much he loved me. How he so regretted letting me go. Once again, I was flattered, but surprised and unsure what to make of it. It didn’t seem to match up with anything we’d experienced.

Occasionally, I would go through nostalgic periods and look various people up. I could never find him, for some reason. Until one day, I did.

I don’t know when it was exactly, now – I think it was 2019. I was just messing around on FB. I don’t have an account, really, so I can’t be found. But I have a shell that I sometimes check in on things with. I was having a hard time in life, which often makes me do a reach back. And there he was, as though he’d always been there. I sent a typical message: hey, I thought of you, recently. Good to see you’re doing well. Message back if you’d like.

I did not expect what followed. Yet again, I was someone’s ethereal ideal of something. He had looked for me so many times, he said. He had never stopped being in love with me, he said. He’d always wondered what life would have been had he gotten it together then, he said. I was the love of his life, he said.

But even with all of that flattery – and it was… the boy looked exactly the damned same, sounded the same and was all the good things I remembered – it was something I had no idea what to do with. He was married, and it didn’t seem unhappily. He had a very entrenched family life. He had deep community roots. And, he was not a little racist, sexist, Trumpy and terrified of population centers. Funny how this seems to be a theme with men who want me so long as they don’t have to deal with the reality of my life: I am not any of those things.

He was also going through some things; things he couldn’t yet reveal to his family. He eventually did. He eventually came clean about the opiates he’d gotten hooked on after a back injury. There were some financial implications to reveal. He started with some therapy and realized there was a whole mess of stuff to unpack.

In some ways, I enjoyed talking with him, being connected. In some ways, I felt angry about his proclamations with clearly no intent to act upon them. It felt like another person wanting something for nothing. He would say things like obviously he must have loved me, because he kept me at arm’s length from the train wreck of him and his life. What did that mean about his wife? At a certain point, we quarreled. When I say we quarreled, I mean I went off. That was in August 2020.

Every now and again, I would ping him. The dreams had stopped. He didn’t respond. Honestly, that surprised me, because it wasn’t his pattern. But I figured it was a case of not being able to unring the bell.

He came up in my thoughts just the other day. I pinged him, but it felt – empty. His FB was the same, but he was never active. Nothing on hers, although she was now single. I Googled. His obituary came up.

It didn’t say what he’d died of, only that he’d died suddenly on Jan 20, 2021. I knew how, and why. I didn’t know if they had split before, but it didn’t surprise me that they might have – there was a complicated backstory with her kids that made everything more problematic. There were things in there that I didn’t know: I had no idea he had 2 daughters, interestingly conceived in times he was quiet with me in the 90s. What was funny about that was that his letter accusing me of always needing someone apparently wasn’t about me. Projection is like that.

There is a part of me that feels sad I scolded him. I know his act wasn’t because of me. But I also know that he was trying – in his own fucked up way – to reach out for help. I just wasn’t in a position to be selfless at the time. I was struggling to swim to shore, myself, and couldn’t manage his struggling in the water to bring him out. If that had even been possible.

Nothing that I said wasn’t true. It was accurate to how I felt. But it was perhaps an unnecessary confrontation, given where he was. I don’t think I knew how precarious he was, but I do know I wasn’t a sanctuary in our last exchange. I feel sadness about that.

However, as soon as I found out, he started to visit me again. I dreamed of him. I hear him talking to me, see him in my mind. It’s so odd, because we seem to be very connected, even though in this life, we really weren’t very deeply acquainted.

Of course, this reminded me a little bit of Shanty Low, and the several other “you were always the one” no-shows who have come before. How can one consistently be the first pick whom no one actually ever chooses?

Although we had not spoken for a few years, knowing that we will not speak again…. I miss him, genuinely. He had so much that he never saw; he was so well-loved by so many, as I saw from various places. I’m sad he’s gone.