deepundergroundpoetry.com
Real Friends
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When I was sixteen, my boyfriend died the night I started dating him.
His name was Dylan Thomas Coyer, and some might argue that he wasn't my boyfriend. Some might say he had another girlfriend. I can't honestly tell you the truth in that. But I can tell you that we had spent about a week hanging out together, we had been cuddling and kissing that day, and I had hoped to spend more time with him than I was able to.
But he had a party to go to.
I'll admit, he wasn't really the best boyfriend material. He was radical, rude, obnoxious, a real gypsy kind of guy -- a juggalo -- who was difficult to pin down. But he was sweet and charismatic and funny and cute, with his spiked hair, Tripp pants, aluminum ball chain necklace, Joop cologne and pouty lips. And he seemed to genuinely like me.
I gave him my best hangdog puppy-eyed pout, begging him to just stay and hang out with me. I'd have given anything to go to that party with him, but my dad would never have allowed it on a school night. And I could hardly blame him for choosing the party over me; we were young and dumb and partying was the only thing exciting we had in the vast cornfields of Indiana.
So we parted with a kiss before he jumped into his friend's convertible, after making plans for him to sneak into my bedroom window late at night after the party. I stayed up late, anticipating his arrival. But part of me knew he probably wouldn't show up, so I let sleep claim me.
------------------------------------------------
Months earlier, there was a rumor of some guy who'd killed himself. I had been fooling around with a guy named Jay and we were making out at a small gathering in our friend's basement when someone rushed in breathlessly, announcing "Dylan killed himself!"
Hours of frantic pacing, crying, cursing chaos ensued as my group of friends mourned and scorned the gods at the loss of their dear friend. I didn't know Dylan at the time, but it was emotionally taxing to see all of my friends so torn up about it. Surely this guy was awesome, he seemed so loved. Meanwhile, it was a real buzzkill to my high, so I simply suggested we smoke in his honor.
Days later, we found out it was all a prank. A ruse. A cry for attention, perhaps. The kind of people I hung out with were rather cruel and found humor in the darkest of notions.
-----------------------------------------------
Aug. 23, 2000
My friend Mary and I made our way to our friend Aric's house the following day, where we'd known Dylan had been crashing for the past couple of weeks. I was anxious and excited, if a bit disappointed that Dylan had not spent the night as I had hoped, but eager to search him out and find him (probably hung over).
He wasn't there. And Aric wasn't sure where he was. He regaled us with a story of the night, the cruel humor our kind had found so much revelry in. Dylan had gotten so drunk, he'd puked all over himself and a bunch of them had dragged him out back, practically to the woods. And instead of taking care of him, like real friends might, they tortured him. Drew on his face, smeared mustard and god-knows-what else on him, pissed on him, removed his shoes and threw them into the woods. And left him there to sober up.
How had I ever considered these people to be friends? I don't know. But when he told the story, I was on drugs and somehow found it funny, too, if a bit over the top.
A piece of me worried about Dylan. But he was scrappy, he'd find his way back to me sooner or later, whenever he sobered up. I gave in to the waves of euphoria calling, the drugs more powerful than my fear and anger.
------------------------------------------------
Aug. 24, 2000
I strode into school, after crashing from heights too high to handle, not really present enough to even be concerned about where Dylan might be.
"Did you hear?" a normally-jovial voice toned somberly -- my jokester friend, Andrew, asked in the hall, students rushing around, some frantic, some careless, to get to class. My brow furrowed and I shook my head, wondering what had gotten into him.
"Dylan's dead..."
Cold fear gripped my heart, knocking the wind out of me, my nostrils flaring and lower lip sucked incredulously between my teeth. "No..." I breathed, several heartbeats skipped in my chest. But I blinked. "Is this like the last time?" I asked angrily, yet an edge of humor tinted the edges of my voice.
"No...this time it's for real."
News spread quickly through the tight little crew of those who knew Dylan. He was too old for school - it was sort of weird, now that I think about it, for a 20 year old to be hanging out with a bunch of punk-kid high schoolers. But it had never occurred to me then. The news wasn't as huge of an incident school-wide. But to the juggalos...to the goths, the punks, the outcasts...our world came crashing down. Everyone knew Dylan. Everyone loved Dylan. Even the people who claimed to hate him.
My knees buckled beneath me, and the next thing I knew I was sitting in the nurse's office, crying hysterically. Tidbits of information came to me throughout the day, and conspiracy theories started flying through my brain.
Dylan had been hit by a car just before the crack of dawn, as he walked down the street from the party he'd gone to. Some said he was stumbling drunk, the driver hadn't seen him. Others whispered suicide. My mind whispered murder.
"Why would he commit suicide?" I shrieked, inconsolable, "He had me! He was coming to see me!" And that seemed like the truth...because the road he was walking was not the one that led to his house, but to mine. Or at least that's the truth I like to tell myself. The truth that makes the most sense.
Why? Why would he commit suicide, I asked?
Could it be because those he thought were friends, those he trusted...had abused, mistreated and tortured him? Had left him soiled and soleless [or soulless] in the chill Indiana night? Could the prospect of a girl he barely knew be enough to keep his booze-soaked mind from wandering the lanes of self-pity and hopelessness?
Perhaps it was suicide. I wouldn't blame him, considering the friends he kept. I'm only sorry I wasn't enough to save him.
Though, my mind rests easier in the belief that it was a drunken misstep in the middle of the night, and poor reactions of a late-night/early-morning driver.
Either way, real friends don't let friends walk home drunk, alone in the wilderness and covered in filth.
------------------------------------------------
In Loving Memory
DYLAN T. COYER
Dec. 5, 1980-Aug. 23, 2000
ELKHART -- Dylan T. Coyer, 19, of 114 Brady St., died at 4:51 a.m. Wednesday (Aug. 23, 2000) from injuries he suffered in a traffic accident on U.S. 20 between C.R. 15 and C.R. 17.
He was born Dec. 5, 1980, in LaPorte, the son of Roy L. and Molly M. (Combs) Coyer. He is survived by his parents, of Elkhart; a sister, Mrs. Doug (Georgianna) Gunter of Lafayette; one brother, William Diedrich of Elkhart; and grandmother, Eunice Harmon of Anderson, Ala.
Friends may call from 10 a.m. to noon on Monday at Walley-Mills-Zimmerman Funeral Home & Crematory. A procession will then leave for the graveside service at Frame Cemetery with the Rev. Toni Carmer of Trinity United Methodist Church officiating.
Mr. Coyer formerly worked at Western Rubber Co. in Goshen and formerly attended River Baptist Church in Elkhart.
Memorials may be given to the Muscular Dystrophy Association.
---------------------------------------------
September is Suicide Prevention Month
Step one: Be a good friend.
---------------------------------------------
When I was sixteen, my boyfriend died the night I started dating him.
His name was Dylan Thomas Coyer, and some might argue that he wasn't my boyfriend. Some might say he had another girlfriend. I can't honestly tell you the truth in that. But I can tell you that we had spent about a week hanging out together, we had been cuddling and kissing that day, and I had hoped to spend more time with him than I was able to.
But he had a party to go to.
I'll admit, he wasn't really the best boyfriend material. He was radical, rude, obnoxious, a real gypsy kind of guy -- a juggalo -- who was difficult to pin down. But he was sweet and charismatic and funny and cute, with his spiked hair, Tripp pants, aluminum ball chain necklace, Joop cologne and pouty lips. And he seemed to genuinely like me.
I gave him my best hangdog puppy-eyed pout, begging him to just stay and hang out with me. I'd have given anything to go to that party with him, but my dad would never have allowed it on a school night. And I could hardly blame him for choosing the party over me; we were young and dumb and partying was the only thing exciting we had in the vast cornfields of Indiana.
So we parted with a kiss before he jumped into his friend's convertible, after making plans for him to sneak into my bedroom window late at night after the party. I stayed up late, anticipating his arrival. But part of me knew he probably wouldn't show up, so I let sleep claim me.
------------------------------------------------
Months earlier, there was a rumor of some guy who'd killed himself. I had been fooling around with a guy named Jay and we were making out at a small gathering in our friend's basement when someone rushed in breathlessly, announcing "Dylan killed himself!"
Hours of frantic pacing, crying, cursing chaos ensued as my group of friends mourned and scorned the gods at the loss of their dear friend. I didn't know Dylan at the time, but it was emotionally taxing to see all of my friends so torn up about it. Surely this guy was awesome, he seemed so loved. Meanwhile, it was a real buzzkill to my high, so I simply suggested we smoke in his honor.
Days later, we found out it was all a prank. A ruse. A cry for attention, perhaps. The kind of people I hung out with were rather cruel and found humor in the darkest of notions.
-----------------------------------------------
Aug. 23, 2000
My friend Mary and I made our way to our friend Aric's house the following day, where we'd known Dylan had been crashing for the past couple of weeks. I was anxious and excited, if a bit disappointed that Dylan had not spent the night as I had hoped, but eager to search him out and find him (probably hung over).
He wasn't there. And Aric wasn't sure where he was. He regaled us with a story of the night, the cruel humor our kind had found so much revelry in. Dylan had gotten so drunk, he'd puked all over himself and a bunch of them had dragged him out back, practically to the woods. And instead of taking care of him, like real friends might, they tortured him. Drew on his face, smeared mustard and god-knows-what else on him, pissed on him, removed his shoes and threw them into the woods. And left him there to sober up.
How had I ever considered these people to be friends? I don't know. But when he told the story, I was on drugs and somehow found it funny, too, if a bit over the top.
A piece of me worried about Dylan. But he was scrappy, he'd find his way back to me sooner or later, whenever he sobered up. I gave in to the waves of euphoria calling, the drugs more powerful than my fear and anger.
------------------------------------------------
Aug. 24, 2000
I strode into school, after crashing from heights too high to handle, not really present enough to even be concerned about where Dylan might be.
"Did you hear?" a normally-jovial voice toned somberly -- my jokester friend, Andrew, asked in the hall, students rushing around, some frantic, some careless, to get to class. My brow furrowed and I shook my head, wondering what had gotten into him.
"Dylan's dead..."
Cold fear gripped my heart, knocking the wind out of me, my nostrils flaring and lower lip sucked incredulously between my teeth. "No..." I breathed, several heartbeats skipped in my chest. But I blinked. "Is this like the last time?" I asked angrily, yet an edge of humor tinted the edges of my voice.
"No...this time it's for real."
News spread quickly through the tight little crew of those who knew Dylan. He was too old for school - it was sort of weird, now that I think about it, for a 20 year old to be hanging out with a bunch of punk-kid high schoolers. But it had never occurred to me then. The news wasn't as huge of an incident school-wide. But to the juggalos...to the goths, the punks, the outcasts...our world came crashing down. Everyone knew Dylan. Everyone loved Dylan. Even the people who claimed to hate him.
My knees buckled beneath me, and the next thing I knew I was sitting in the nurse's office, crying hysterically. Tidbits of information came to me throughout the day, and conspiracy theories started flying through my brain.
Dylan had been hit by a car just before the crack of dawn, as he walked down the street from the party he'd gone to. Some said he was stumbling drunk, the driver hadn't seen him. Others whispered suicide. My mind whispered murder.
"Why would he commit suicide?" I shrieked, inconsolable, "He had me! He was coming to see me!" And that seemed like the truth...because the road he was walking was not the one that led to his house, but to mine. Or at least that's the truth I like to tell myself. The truth that makes the most sense.
Why? Why would he commit suicide, I asked?
Could it be because those he thought were friends, those he trusted...had abused, mistreated and tortured him? Had left him soiled and soleless [or soulless] in the chill Indiana night? Could the prospect of a girl he barely knew be enough to keep his booze-soaked mind from wandering the lanes of self-pity and hopelessness?
Perhaps it was suicide. I wouldn't blame him, considering the friends he kept. I'm only sorry I wasn't enough to save him.
Though, my mind rests easier in the belief that it was a drunken misstep in the middle of the night, and poor reactions of a late-night/early-morning driver.
Either way, real friends don't let friends walk home drunk, alone in the wilderness and covered in filth.
------------------------------------------------
In Loving Memory
DYLAN T. COYER
Dec. 5, 1980-Aug. 23, 2000
ELKHART -- Dylan T. Coyer, 19, of 114 Brady St., died at 4:51 a.m. Wednesday (Aug. 23, 2000) from injuries he suffered in a traffic accident on U.S. 20 between C.R. 15 and C.R. 17.
He was born Dec. 5, 1980, in LaPorte, the son of Roy L. and Molly M. (Combs) Coyer. He is survived by his parents, of Elkhart; a sister, Mrs. Doug (Georgianna) Gunter of Lafayette; one brother, William Diedrich of Elkhart; and grandmother, Eunice Harmon of Anderson, Ala.
Friends may call from 10 a.m. to noon on Monday at Walley-Mills-Zimmerman Funeral Home & Crematory. A procession will then leave for the graveside service at Frame Cemetery with the Rev. Toni Carmer of Trinity United Methodist Church officiating.
Mr. Coyer formerly worked at Western Rubber Co. in Goshen and formerly attended River Baptist Church in Elkhart.
Memorials may be given to the Muscular Dystrophy Association.
---------------------------------------------
September is Suicide Prevention Month
Step one: Be a good friend.
---------------------------------------------
Published 29th Sep 2015
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