It’s three miles to the river,
That would carry me away.
And two miles to the dusty street
That I saw you on today.

In 1989, I was training to work in a mini mart when I was introduced to Phil. He had a long face, long hair, was soft spoken and drank lots of coffee. He was nicknamed RePhil because he was known for getting a coffee refill. There began a conversation that lasted ten years. A lot happened in that time.

It’s four miles to my lonely room
Where I will hide my face,
And about half a mile to the downtown bar
That I ran from in disgrace.

Phil and I would talk about anything and everything. The subjects ran the gamut and were interesting. It seemed that we would part ways, going about our lives, and would pick right up from where we left off previously. On the weekends, he would sit at home watching TV and drinking whatever beer he could afford on a night watchman’s salary. His wife, Terry, stood by him through thick and thin. It took a long time for she and I to understand each other. She cared about Phil, deeply.

Lord, how long do I have to keep on running,
Seven hours, seven days, or seven years?
All I know is, since you’ve been gone
I feel like I’m drowning in a river.
Drowning in a river of tears.
Drowning in a river.
Feel like I’m drowning.
Drowning in a river.

Phil watched as I dried up from my alcoholism, being supportive and non-judgemental. He saw me go through a three year depression and, as I was coming back to life, he saw me make one of the biggest mistakes of my life. He tried to warn me that I was making a mistake in getting married to my now ex-wife but I was having too much fun to listen to Phil being a good friend. When I went through my divorce, he laughed that quiet laugh of his and told me, “I told you so but you weren’t listening.”

In three more days I’ll leave this town
And disappear without a trace.
A year from now, maybe settle down
Where no one knows my face.

Phil and I kept talking about the stars, serial killers, crosswords, and anything else that crossed our paths. We sang Monty Python and Frank Zappa songs. We called Eric Clapton (who’s lyrics are in italics here), God (Phil was a recovering Catholic). I would stop by where he worked, after getting off work, and continue our conversation. We once found a record of dope humor and would laugh about it for days. After that, when he would call where I was working, he would leave the message, “tell him his Guru called” My boss, being Hispanic, couldn’t pronounce Guru quite the same, which led to some good laughs. Phil once told me that he could tell when I was coming down the road. He would hear all the cars booming their rap or hip hop, then he would hear either Neil Young or Pink Floyd from three blocks away and know it was me. Sure enough, I would arrive, light up a doobie and the conversation continued.

I wish I could hold you
One more time to ease the pain.
But my time’s run out and I got to go,
Got to run away again.

In 1998, I figured that the best way for me to get myself out of Yakima was to go back to school and get to Eastern Washington University (EWU). So I went back and earned my degree so I could pursue a degree at EWU. That last year in Yakima was a bit sentimental as I knew I was leaving. Phil and I started wrapping up our conversation as we knew we were going to be parting ways. He was about to move into a new home as I was working on doing more with my life.

Still I catch myself thinking,
One day I’ll find my way back here.
You’ll save me from drowning,
Drowning in a river,
Drowning in a river of tears.”
Drowning in a river,
Feel like I’m drowning,”
Drowning in the river,
Lord, how long must this go on?

Not long after I moved to Spokane, Phil got involved in an affair. I was his good friend by going to Yakima to bitch him out for that all weekend long. Things appeared to be good when I left and Terry even thanked me, saying that Phil was more affectionate with her after that. I would call Phil to see how he was doing and to share things that were going on in my life (namely the Wiccan I was dating). Going into Super Bowl weekend, Phil told me that he had been fired from his job because an empty beer can had been found inside one of the buildings under his care. The affair had returned and left the empty there. I joked with Phil that he would have to get a real job. I told him that I would call a family friend, who owned and operated a fruit company, and see if I could get them to interview Phil.

On January 31, 2000, I woke up to the sound of my phone ringing at three O’something in the morning. It was Terry telling me that the affair came over, creating a scene, waking her up. She came out and an argument between her and the affair ensued. Phil grabbed his 45, stepped out the side door and, before Terry could reach him, put the 45 to his head and shot himself. I guess he thought his mariage was beyond repair.

About a week after his death, I was visited by Phil, in a dream. We were on a tree lined street in Minnesota (where he grew up). He told me that he was all right and happy. I told him that I would miss him and we hugged. Then I woke up.

Drowning in a river,
Drowning in a river of tears.

Italicized lyrics from River of Tears by Eric Clapton.