TDHD, pt 2

***warning: If you are not in the mood for a disturbing post, you may want to skip this one. It enters into TMI territory.***

Fred insisted on taking Max for a walk. Max was his dog- half German Shepherd, half collie. He loved that dog more than anything.

I thought going for a walk was a good idea. Anything to keep Fred away from the alcohol, his mind off of morbid thoughts. I remember that we talked about some pretty intense stuff, but for the life of me, I don't remember what that was.

We didn't go far. We could have stopped at our friend Tony's house. In fact, I think we thought about it, but it appeared no one was home. Tony was an older guy that lived up the block from Fred, he lived with his wife and son. He was sometimes a good, mature, father influence on Fred.

I could have used his help that night.

We ended up back at the house, it was just getting dark outside and we were sitting out front with Max. A police patrol car pulled up in front of the house. A cop got out and greeted Fred by name (yeah, he had had enough incidents that he was actually friendly with some of the area cops.)

He informed us that he " just had a call from someone reporting that they had heard gunshots in the neighborhood. Did we know anything about it?"

Fred answered him in his drunken slurred voice that we had been walking the dog. We hadn't heard anything. We didn't know anything about it. We didn't even own a gun.

The cop turned to me and I confirmed it.

As the cop was leaving he said "You're staying home the rest of the night, right Fred?"

Yep. Was Fred's response.

In Fred's paranoid state, he was a bit more concerned about the cop's visit than I was. Why was someone saying that about him? He doesn't have a gun! What were they thinking?

At this point, Fred's personality began to change. He started to become Party Fred. Cracking jokes, flirting, acting like a happy drunk who just wanted to hear some great music. We went back inside the house while he cranked his stereo to his music of choice. (Candlebox, Nirvana, Bobby Brown, Great White, Soundgarden, The Smashing Pumpkins, Tool, Collective Soul.)

Fred's roommate Joe came home. A true southern-boy, redneck, party type. Joe was happy to come home to see the "party" had already begun.

I'm sure Fred was drinking again at this point, but I don't remember.

What I do remember was Fred telling Joe about the cop's visit and what the cop said. Joe said to Fred "You haven't been playing around with my gun, have you?"

Just typing those words makes me feel ill.

Fred was defensive. "No! Of course not!"

For the life of me, I don't know what possessed Joe to do what he did next. Maybe he didn't believe Fred? Clearly, he didn't know who he was dealing with. Clearly, he had never met drunk #3.

Joe went and got his gun out of his room. A 9mm.

Fred was mesmerized, he wanted to see it, to hold it. Joe removed the clip and tossed the gun to Fred. Fred proceeded to play around with the gun, and starting talking about how good it would be to just end it all.

He held the empty gun to his head. I grabbed the phone and threatened to call the cops. I yelled at Fred to cut it out. Joe thought he was joking and was sort of arguing back with him about how ridiculous he was. As I continued yelling, holding the phone, Fred pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. I threw the phone at him and hit him.

I was sitting on the couch. Fred was standing about four feet directly in front of me. Joe was sitting about 8 feet to my left.

I continued shouting and yelling, I wanted Joe to take the gun back and put it away. Joe was yelling back at me that the clip (cartridge? whatever) was empty and I was freaking out for no reason. I remember yelling that he didn't understand.

Fred was yelling at me to calm down.

Joe was telling Fred to be careful, not to drink anymore or he might hurt me.

This set Fred off. I'd never hurt her! I love her! Do you understand? I could never hurt her!

Oooooh how wrong he was.

What happened next probably took about less than 30 seconds. In my memory, it happens in slow motion. In my memory, I see the entire scene play out as if I had an out-of-body experience. My viewpoint is as if I was hovering overhead, looking down at what transpired.

Fred gave the gun back to Joe.

Joe held the gun, and nonchalantly put the clip back into it, saying something along the lines of "I think you're full of shit".

I turned to flick my cigarette in my ashtray that was all the way over to my right.

Just as Joe was handing the gun back to Fred.

I remember the loud "pop" and the sound of Fred hitting the floor. By the time I turned my head back, he was already on the floor.

I immediately ran to him and crouched beside him. I have absolutely no memory of what Joe did or where he was.

Fred's friend Billy who was sleeping in the guest bedroom the entire time, came out of his room, saw Fred on the floor and began to pace and yell, "Oh Fuck! Oh Fuck! Shit! Fuck!"

I was trying to clear Fred's mouth of the blood and stuff that was filling it. He was making gurgling sounds that made me think he was trying to breathe. I was only vaguely aware of all the blood and the bits of brain that looked like oatmeal all over his face, the floor, and then me.

I grabbed the phone and called 911. I have no idea what I said, but I remember begging.

I sat there, holding Fred, holding his hand, clearing his face and mouth. Talking to him, praying to God, telling Fred to hold on. The police arrived (including the cop from earlier in the evening), and they immediately pulled me off of Fred. They took me into the kitchen and started asking questions, but I could still see Fred. I could see the paramedics.

Max was going crazy. Barking and growling at the officers. Billy had to put him in the backyard to keep him away.

I didn't understand why the paramedics weren't doing anything. Why were they letting Fred just lay there? Why weren't they helping him?

I remember asking the cops "Is he dead?" They gave me a funny look (I guess they were surprised I didn't know). And someone said yes.

(Had I been thinking straight, I would have realized that Fred had blown away the entire side of his head. He died before he hit the ground. He died before I had even crushed my cigarette into the ashtray.)

I tried to run to Fred. I screamed. I howled. A gut wrenching, soul-crying scream. I ran to him. And I was intercepted by who-knows-how-many cops who then proceeded to carry me outside. They held me down for several minutes while I wailed.

I was questioned. The unanswered questions of the evening (and of my life) were Did he know the gun was loaded the second time Joe gave it to him? Was he too drunk to know what was going on? Was it an accident or suicide?


They swiped some stuff on my hands to see if I had handled the gun. One of the officers had drawn a diagram of the "scene" with a smiley face on Fred. I remember commenting on it. They wouldn't let me near Joe (who I wanted to kill) or Billy. They called a "victim's advocate" to come be with me, but she didn't do much. I was in this really weird state- I was being very coherent, very "together", even cracking jokes. They wanted to know if I had someone I could stay with, someone I could call.


A crowd had gathered outside the house. This was a quiet, suburban, middle-class family neighborhood. I had no idea who these people were.

Here's an example of how fucked up you can become during a tragedy like this: I called my boss, Cindy. To tell her I wouldn't be able to make it to work the next day. I don't think I even called my parents.

Billy and I called our friend Jeff to come get us. We slept at his apartment.

We left poor Max outside in the backyard that entire evening. I'll never forgive myself for that. I remember hearing his whimpers the entire time.


We left the house in the hands of the police.

I never saw Fred again. I never got to say goodbye.