Seeing Steve

By Anthony Rowe

It’s my turn to see Steve. I tentatively inch forward until I am standing above

him. He’s lying flat, his hands are resting upon his chest, and his eyes are

closed. I’ve seen him in this position before, minus the make-up and the

bloated appearance, usually after one of the many long, amusing nights we

shared together a long time ago.

My eyes slowly scan his body and come to rest upon his perfectly still face. I

stare - looking, hoping, willing against reason that his eyelids will lift and

expose a mischievous glint, triggering the familiar, electric smile that will

reassure me this whole death scene is just some sort of complicated joke. Of

course, his eyes don’t open. I continue to stare, and my mind wanders as the

funeral home’s murmurs fade into the background.

Steve is dribbling the basketball just to the left of the top of the key. He

bounces on his feet, intently watching the movements of teammates and

defenders. His hair is wet from sweat, and it hangs down in strands of straight

black across his forehead. Shoes squeak as players cut and push, flash and

react. Steve eyes his defender, who is crouched and looking back up at him.

To the uninformed, his defender looks ready for whatever Steve may bring.

Steve assesses his options, takes one last look for the open man, sees no one,

and decides to make his move.

Eyes narrow. Face tightens. Steve leans forward, holding the ball in front of

him. Suddenly he moves to his right, toward the lane, leaning into his defender

with his left shoulder while dribbling with his right hand. The defender is on

his heels, attempting to react to Steve’s movements.

Steve, recognizing that his defender is reeling, jumps to a sudden stop just

inside of the free throw line. The defender continues toward the basket as

Steve rises up, eyes locked on the target, hair flying, left hand gently pulling

away from the basketball as the right hand rises. Defenders much taller than

Steve come to help their beaten teammate, but they are too late. Steve’s arm

fully extends and his fingertips stretch as he releases the ball. As the ball rolls

off of the fingertips, Steve’s wrist snaps forward in a picture-perfect follow

through. Steve gently lands on the balls of his feet as the ball nestles into the

net.

I snap out of my daydream and realize that there are others waiting to see

Steve. I take one last hopeful look, but he is still still. The magic has been

drained out of him. I walk away and move to the line that leads toward his

wife and two children.

The line edges forward. My turn will be here soon. I have not seen Steve’s

wife since his 30th birthday party fourteen years ago. I wonder if she will

remember me. Steve’s two children stand by their mother, looking dazed and

exhausted, going through the scripted motions and unscripted emotions. The

last time I saw Steve’s daughter, she was two. This is the first time I’ve seen his

son.

Like many friendships, mine with Steve faded slowly over a period of years.

One life decision after another guided us toward today and farther away from

the friendship we had shared. Marriage. Children. Jobs. He moved. I stayed.

As I wait in line, I think back to the last time that I saw Steve. It was seven

years ago, at my father’s funeral. There were a few hundred people at the

service that day, and about half of them showed up at my brother’s house for

the reception afterwards. I spoke to so many people that day, and I can’t

remember much of what I said or what I heard, but I will always remember a

quiet moment Steve and I shared at the end of the driveway at the end of the

day.

Steve and I are talking about my dad. Steve likes to call my dad by his

nickname “Red” (but never to his face). I tell Steve that I feel robbed because

my father has been taken away too early at the age of 68. Steve listens patiently

and then looks me in the eye and says, “Anth, what you have to remember is

that those were ‘Red Years’.” Steve pauses and a warm smile comes across his

face. He then points out to me that my father had packed in more in his 68

years than most could hope to accomplish in much longer lifetimes. I smile.

Throughout the day I had laughed at many stories of my dad’s exploits, but this

is the first smile.

We talk quietly for a few more minutes, and then it’s time for Steve to go. We

shake hands, and he climbs into his car. I stand at the end of my brother’s

driveway watching Steve drive away.

I look up from the carpet and realize that it’s almost my turn to see Steve’s

wife. The couple she is talking to walks away, and she turns to me. She smiles

warmly and opens her arms.

We speak awkwardly in hushed tones for a few minutes, and then it’s someone

else’s turn to share their condolences. I move away. I survey the funeral home,

and I see, off at the far end of the room, hand-made posters on easels. I am

drawn to the pictures on those posters. I am drawn to the life they document.

The pictures on the posters range from early childhood through last week. In

each picture, whether Steve is younger or older, his eyes tell the story. Those

eyes put the punctuation mark on any word or action of Steve’s. Energy

sparked from those eyes. Now, across the room, those eyes are shut tight and I

wonder where the light has gone.

I look closely at a picture of Steve from about 20 years ago, and I am taken

back.

I’m lying on the couch at my dad’s townhouse. It’s mid-afternoon on a

weekday. The radio is on, but I’m not really listening. I’m supposed to be

looking for a job, but I can’t, or I won’t. Anyway, I don’t. Steve walks in

without knocking. He is also supposed to be looking for a job. He walks up,

sits down, smiles, and asks me what we’re going to do. Soon I am up off of the

couch and we go. We play hoops, we go to the bowling alley to play Frogger,

we go to a movie. I know I will have to face my dad at the end of yet another

wasted day; but I’m with Steve and we are laughing, and that pervasive,

nameless feeling that lives inside of me is gone for now.

I stand in the middle of the crowded funeral home. I blink back tears as I

realize how much I value those wasted days. Steve had lifted me up, time after

time after time, at a point in my life when I could have easily stayed down.

It’s late night/early morning. I’m lying in bed in a nondescript hotel room just

off of the interstate. Tomorrow’s the funeral, and images flash through my

mind.

It’s a college summer. I’m standing on a softball field posing for a picture with

my teammates. We’re arm in arm, we’re sweaty, and we’re all smiling. We’re

twelve high school friends who just won a softball championship. I’m standing

in the back row. Steve is kneeling in the front. The picture is taken, and we

break apart. Time to celebrate. Time to drink. Time to laugh continuously.

Time to rehash each and every play over and over again.

Earlier in the evening, as my friend Bill and I drove from the funeral home to

the hotel, I reminded him of the picture. He instantly knew which picture I

was talking about. I remarked that if someone were to slowly scan each face in

that picture and was then asked which one of those young men would die of a

heart attack at the age of 44, Steve would have been the last one they would

have picked. Without missing a beat, Bill turned to look at me and replied,

“They would have picked you.” I nod.

I lie in the dark, scanning that picture slowly in my mind, and I ask questions

that people ask when someone they love has died. Why do some get to live

and some have to die? Why him? Why not me? I continue to stare at the

ceiling, unable to sleep. I want to go home. I want to be with my wife and my

children.

The night drags on. My brain continues to present a montage of moments

from my life with Steve when an unexpected face appears. It’s Earlie Mae.

Earlie Mae was the woman who cleaned our house when I was growing up.

She was an African-American woman who had grown up in the Deep South.

She was probably close to 60 when she first started, and she continued to work

for my family for the next 20 years. When she first came to work for my family,

my brothers and I didn’t pay much attention to her, and we figured that she

didn’t pay much attention to us. As time passed, we came to realize that she

didn’t miss a thing. She knew us, in many ways, better than our parents did.

My brother and I are telling Earlie a story about Steve. She smiles, shakes her

head slowly, and says, “Poor Little Stevie!” We ask her why she always calls him

that, and she replies, “He just so vulnerable.” My brother and I lean back and

laugh loudly. We shake our heads. Earlie must be crazy - Steve has it all. He’s

handsome, he’s smart, and he’s one of the best athletes we know. My brother

and I would never actually say these words to each other, but it is understood.

What my brother and I didn’t understand then was that Earlie Mae saw

something in Steve that most of those around him couldn’t. There was a

vulnerability inside of Steve, and it was exposed, layer by layer, to those of us

who were closest to him as he entered the adult world. We came to see that it

was very important for Steve to present an image of professional achievement

to the world, even when things weren’t going very well. More than a few of us

from our high school crowd were adrift in the months (and, for some of us,

years) that followed our graduating from college, but it bothered Steve much

more than it did the rest of us. This would have been all well and good if it

wasn’t for the sinking feeling I have that Steve might not have allowed himself

to see what others saw in him. Did he see the Steve who built others up? Did

he see the Steve who brought laughter with him wherever he went? Did he see

the Steve who left an impression on everyone he met? Did he regard these

qualities as successes?

I continue to lie awake, trying to make sense of Steve’s death, looking to a

cherished picture and a wise old woman for clues. Maybe if I had seen him

more than once in the past 14 years I’d have a better chance.

---

The funeral. I walk into the church. The pastor steps up to stand in front of

the congregation with a guitar strapped across his neck, and I start to think that

this might be the right man for the job. The pastor welcomes everyone and

then plays his guitar while a young man sings a hymn. After the song, the

pastor explains that we aren’t going to have a formal service. Instead, he

invites us to stand up and tell stories about Steve. Now I know for certain that

this is the right man for the job.

Stories are told. Some have the crowd roaring in laughter while others bring

about a quiet sadness. I am sitting between my two friends, Bill and Dave.

Dave turns to me and whispers, “Wild Thing?” I look at him like he’s crazy. I

turn to Bill sitting next to me, and he just raises his eyebrows in response. I

look around the room. I see the pastor with his guitar, and I start to realize that

Dave may be a little bit crazy, but it’s the brilliant kind of crazy, the “let’s seize

the day” kind of crazy.

I’m a senior in high school. My dad and my stepmother are going through a

trial separation (do those ever work?). Each weekend, my dad goes away to be

with my stepmother, leaving me alone in the house. One of the benefits of this

arrangement is that I am here, in my house on a Saturday night, surrounded by

my closest friends, my favorite beverages, and instruments with amplifiers. It’s

just about time for me to step up to the mike. I don’t play an instrument, and I

don’t really sing, but one of the traditions of these jam sessions is that I, the

host, get up and sing “Wild Thing”. I’m called up to the mike. The crowd

cheers. I look out into the crowd and I see Steve raising a beer in salute. We

rip into the song. It is wild, and it is a thing.

We had dozens of those jam sessions over the course of about three years. I

sang “Wild Thing” at just about every one of them, and the song has followed

me into my adult life. At my wedding reception, after some persuasion from

our friend Weenie, I got up with the band and sang the song to my wife. Now

the song is here again, this time at a funeral.

I’ve had only a few moments to run all of this through my head as I sit here in

the pew, but it has become clear that “Wild Thing” is the exact right thing to

do. Dave quietly approaches the pastor as someone is telling a story. Dave

leans over and speaks in the pastor’s ear. The pastor smiles as he nods his

head.

So Dave, Bill, and I, joined by the pastor on guitar, stand in front of this

packed church. I give a short explanation of what we are going to sing and

why. I tell the people looking up at us that we are certain the song, as sung by

us, would bring a huge smile to Steve’s face. We sing, the audience claps along,

and smiles spread out throughout the chapel, the most important ones coming

from Steve’s wife and kids. I feel the spirit and the sheer power of friendship as

I stand up there singing for Steve with Dave and Bill. The lyrics to the song

may not have much to do with the present circumstances, but the act of singing

has shared our love for Steve, a love that binds this gathering together on this

day.

More stories are told, and then a boy who looks to be about 12 years old stands

up and tells us about a basketball game. The boy shares that he was not a star

player, but that Steve had taken the time to work with him. The boy describes

a play where one of his teammates got a rebound. As the boy was heading up

the court, he heard Steve shout to him from the stands, “Nice block out!” The

boy quietly states that Steve’s words “made my day”. He sits down.

I know from years of playing basketball that not many people in the stands

notice a good block out, much less yell encouragement to the kid who did it.

When the boy sits down, I look at the ground and say to myself, “I know that

feeling.”

I’m on a golf course in DeKalb, Illinois. Steve’s parents moved here toward

the end of our college days. We’re playing golf with some friends Steve has

made during his short stay here. I am the world’s worst golfer. I have never

taken a lesson and have no clue what I’m doing. Hole after hole, I wind up

furiously, swing for the fences, top the ball, and watch it roll meekly for, at

most, maybe 50 yards. After a few holes, it becomes clear to me that my act is

wearing on Steve’s buddies - my flailing is slowing their game down.

We move on, and I am getting increasingly frustrated. I swing, swear, and

pound my club into the ground. Steve’s buddies are becoming increasingly

grim and silent. Steve, on the other hand, keeps smiling and gently teases me,

trying to get me to lighten up.

Then, on what feels like the 117th hole, I do something right. I get a ball up in

the air, it goes in a straight line, and lands on the fairway. There are half-hearted

claps and some words of surprise from Steve’s buddies, but as I turn to walk

back to my bag, I see Steve running at me with a huge smile on his face. He

runs straight at me, jumps on me, and hugs me. As we walk down the fairway

together, I am grinning. Steve is beaming as he slaps me on the back.

On a planet of billions of people doing billions of things on that day twenty

years ago, Steve’s reaction to that fluke of a shot was a microscopic moment,

but it meant the world to me. It made my day.

The funeral ends. I meet Steve’s friends and neighbors at the reception

afterwards. Bill, Dave, and I get many compliments for “Wild Thing”. After

an hour or so, it’s time to say goodbye. I want to stay, but it’s time to go.

Bill and I are in the car, and we are driving away from Steve. We’re quiet. We

are heading home to our wives and our children. I think back to a

conversation Bill and I had just a few months before.

We’re in Bill’s kitchen talking about getting the softball team from all those

years ago back together. We are as serious as we ever are about getting

everyone together, which means that we mean well but neither of us will follow

through. We are talking about Steve, wondering where he is and what he is

doing. We both share how much we miss him without actually saying that we

miss him. I make a decision in my mind that I am going to go home and track

down Steve’s number and give him a call.

We continue to drive in silence. I watch the highway pass underneath us, and I

think back to the days, weeks, and months that went by after that conversation

in Bill’s kitchen. All of that time. I could have found him. I could have called.

But I didn’t.

The phone rings. I’m lying on the couch watching television. My wife picks up

the phone in the other room. She comes in and hands it to me. The voice on

the other end of the line says, “Steve died.”

Bill drops me off in front of my house after the long drive. I watch his car

lights disappear down the block. I put down my bags and sit on my front

porch, thinking. I look up to the sky and I wish that I had had just one more

chance to see Steve.

Steve and I are sitting at my kitchen table. I tracked him down, called him, and

invited him to drop by if he was ever in town. Our wives are in the living room

getting to know one another. Steve’s kids are in the basement playing video

games with mine. He and I are catching up, laughing about the good times we

had and the foolish things we did.

There is a break in the conversation, a moment of reflective silence amongst

the laughter. Before I can stop myself, I look at Steve and blurt out the words,

“Thank you.” He gives me a quizzical look. An excruciatingly awkward

moment ensues, followed by some uncomfortable shifting in our chairs.

Suddenly Steve bursts into laughter and begins a meandering story that uses

many, many words to say what I had foolishly tried to say using only two.

I unlock the front door to my house and step into the front hall. It is dark, and

everything is still. I am empty, and yet I am full. I look up the stairs to where

my wife, my daughter, and my son are sleeping, and I become aware of just

how fragile the foundation of our home feels beneath my feet.