Eleven years ago, in the summer of 2006, my old friend Luis Fernandez de la Reguera was staying with us when he crashed his motorcycle on our street and suffered ultimately fatal head trauma. He lingered in the Albany Medical Center ICU, attached to machines for three days before they unhooked him, let him go, and harvested his kidneys and, to my astonishment, his liver.
Something in the summer air tonight brought him back to me. He is heavy on my mind and heart, and I am missing him, wishing with new acuity he was here to see his godson, Jack, now 19 and home from his first year away at college. These longings do not go away, apparently, but rather ebb and flow. Tonight, they flow.
I am remembering in particular telling Luis that Holly was pregnant. He was the first person I told. It was a summer night, not unlike tonight. He was bartending at the Lakeside Lounge on Avenue B, and I walked across Tompkins Square Park to tell him. Face alight with joy, he hugged me, his eyes wide, focused on my me with palpable heat. “You have intent on your face,” he said. “Intent.”
He was correct. I’d been floundering in my life, unsure if I was investing my energy wisely. One of the only things in which I felt confident was I knew I wanted to be a father. This had always been deeply true. Now it was happening, and my energy shifted, consolidated, concentrated on a single point, a spark of life we would name Jack. I would become his primary caregiver while his mother worked in midtown Manhattan, and we’d all navigate accordingly. I don’t really believe in Destiny, but it felt fated.
I wanted Luis in on this. A couple months later, at the Dynasty Diner (AKA the Die Nasty) I asked him to be my son’s godfather. I wanted him in Jack’s life, to help teach, to shepherd. Luis was one of the bravest people I ever met, and he made me brave; he cast light on a bigger, broader picture of life. I wanted my son to know that sense of release, of expansiveness, where emotions like shame and regret dissipate, and joy and hope solidify, so you can touch and wield them.
Luis was taken aback, but he said yes. Rather than godfather, he asked to be referred to as padrino, i.e. “little dad,” a nod to his Mexican heritage. To be honest, he was a little mad at me for asking him. This came out later. Neither one of us really knew what we were doing, and as a man, he was still struggling to strike a balance in his relationships between no-strings-attached gypsy freedom and pledges of responsibility. Still, he adjusted, and came to appreciate and love his role as Jack’s padrino. I had faith he and my son would find a distinctive relationship rhythm, and both would feel enriched. I was sure of this.
The following January 21st, he was the first to visit us at St. Vincent’s, when Jack was born. It was a Wednesday. A couple days later, Luis would drive us home in a blinding, record-breaking rainstorm, to the safety of our warm, dry St. Mark’s Place apartment.
In the days following Luis’ death, the smoke alarm outside the room he’d been staying in went off three times, with no smoke in the house. A blackbird flew in the dining room and perched, and then shat, on a tribute poster we’d made for Luis’ memorial. Our cat, Sis, caught an electric green hummingbird in her mouth, a horror to which Jack alerted me. I pried the bird loose from the irritated cat, prayed it would survive. After lolling stunned in my palm, it rose, hovered before my face, and zoomed away.
Years passed, and our lives carried on, as lives do. (Until they don’t.) Partly to assuage my grief, I jumped into the business of making children’s music as Uncle Rock, surrounding myself with little humans unburdened by loss.
I also began to write in earnest. Luis’ death, combined with the death of my oldest friend Todd two years previous – about whom more in a few – spurred me on in this particular endeavor. (I’d been procrastinating for years.) But Luis’ presence was, and still is, so huge, I didn’t attempt to wrangle him into significantly meaty, dedicated prose. I was not ready. Nevertheless, aspects of his personality obliquely appeared in my work. All the while, my Writer Voice nagged me to come back to this presence later, and tell the story of our friendship, revivify the man and our connection as much as I can with the tools I’ve honed. I still intend to do it. It will be an undertaking. But I am working on Todd first.
(Luis’ and my mutual friend, Michael Poole, AKA The Professor, wrote about Luis beautifully and at length HERE.)
The few paragraphs I did manage about Luis are pasted below, shared at last. The file is dated September, 2006. I re-read them tonight for the first time in years. I banged them out in a haze of numb grief, closed the file, and got on with my life and work, which have been fulfilling, and for which I almost always feel grateful.
So please enjoy some remembrances of this man I loved, whose ghost rose in me tonight for reasons unclear, but who I welcome, as ever, despite the sadness. And while I’ve got your attention: forgive someone, call someone you’ve been meaning to call and tell them you love them, take a risk, hug a child, swallow rather than voice a complaint, take pleasure in your body. Seek out someone who makes you laugh, and laugh.
LAST CONVERSATION WITH LUIS
The last conversation Luis and I had was two nights before the motorcycle accident that cut short his life. The crash would occur three driveways from our 1910 Victorian house in rural Phoenicia, New York. He was on his way back home and we were all going out to have Mexican food. I remember being nervous about the prospect of Luis not being impressed with the Gypsy Wolf – the Mexican restaurant in nearby Woodstock. Having just spent three years on the Yucatan Peninsula, in the Mexican culture than ran thick in his blood, Luis knew whereof he spoke – and ate – when it came to Mexican food, and his stories of culinary adventures ran the gamut from sublime to horrifically disgusting and funny. For instance, he’d gotten parasites from eating a taco filled with brains, about which he laughed. I wasn’t nervous about what he would say about the Gypsy Wolf; the truth was always a given with Luis. I simply wanted him to be happy with his food.
Thirty-six hours prior to that day, in the dim light of a computer screen in the guest room of my home, Luis and I were riffing and laughing. Luis was allergic to our cat, so my wife Holly had given him an Allegra, and he was buzzing like he’d just drank a double espresso. And stimulants were not his thing; drawn to depressants, he’d struggled with heroin before I knew him, and he was always at odds with alcohol. On the Allegra, his already-protruding brown eyes were bugging out and his everyday rapid-fire speech was even more accelerated than usual. But it was like music, that voice – a New Orleans gumbo of oddball pronunciations, a giddy squeal-to-a-snort of laughter, laced with punk rock energy and sweet, soulful charm. I was exhausted, having worked that day at a summer camp, but I’d not yet had much quality time with Luis, so I fought my fatigue.
Luis had been with us for a week, having divested himself of his house in Mexico, bought an RV in Florida, and driven up I-95 to come and get a bunch of things I’d been holding onto for him during his time south of the border. His plan was to have a long-overdue visit with my family – which included his godson, my eight-year-old Jack – get his stuff, and turn around and head to Costa Rica to start a new chapter in his life. Included in that stuff was his beloved BMW motorcycle, which was in our horse barn, draped with heavy quilted blankets. A family of mice had taken up residence on the seat, nesting in shredded cloth on the cracked black leather. Amazingly, however, when Luis wheeled it into the bright August sun, the bike had started right up. In the day-and-a-half that followed our last conversation, he would tinker with it in the backyard. Some time later, while he lingered in this realm, tethered to machines to keep him alive, I would clean up the flattened cardboard box he’d been using to keep the oil spillage off the flagstones.
In the guest room, we’d been talking about suicide. My friend Todd’s, in fact. Next to Luis, whom I’d know since 1985, Todd had been my oldest friend. The two friendships were similar not only in their length, but also in the fact that each was a thread that could be picked up effortlessly after weeks or months had passed. There was no awkward period of getting back in tune with one another – we always just picked up where we left off. In that last conversation, I’d played Luis a song I’d written about Todd, and, even though the song does not overtly state it, Luis picked up on something. “You’re still mad about that, aren’t you?” he’d asked, referring to Todd’s intentional drug overdose two years earlier. I’d replied that yeah, in addition to the myriad other emotions that torment my innards, anger still rises and falls, though with less intensity than before. In response, Luis told me a story.
He’d been 18, living in New Orleans, where he’d spent much of his youth with an abusive single father. Careening into manhood, Luis had moved out of his father’s house and into a shitty apartment with two fellow punk rockers. Tired of feeling bad all the time, Luis had chosen to kill himself. He’d waited until he was fairly sure his roommates would be out, then he’d purchased three bottles of Sominex and a fifth of Jack Daniel’s. He’d taken off his boots, downed his drugs and crawled under the bed to hide, and ultimately, to die. Through a series of unlikely twists of fate, one of Luis’s roommates happened to see the three Sominex boxes on the sidewalk outside the apartment, had sensed something, and had gone inside to look for him. Because he’d taken off his boots and left them in plain sight (“They were the only footwear I owned,” Luis laughed) the roommate eventually figured out Luis was in the apartment, found him, and called 911.
Luis told me he’d awoken in the emergency room with a tube down his throat, the taste of charcoal in his mouth, and a New Orleans cop in his face telling him he’d broken the law. He’d told the cop to fuck off, then got his shit together and headed for New York. “But man,” Luis said with a soft shake of his head, “when I was drinking that Jack Daniel’s and taking those sleeping pills… I was so happy. I remember that. I hadn’t been that happy in a long time.”
I can see his face as he said it – deep dark eyes filled with fierce love, and a trace of fear overcome by the heart that beat strong inside him. In my mind’s eye, Luis is stretched out on the bed a couple feet away from me, in blue Carhartt jeans and a white V-neck T-shirt, dingy white socks on his feet. He is smiling, in need of a shave. Scalp, and handsome, russet face covered with stubble; hirsute forearms, usually gesticulating expressively, are resting on his round belly. He’d told me on the phone, en route north to Phoenicia, that he’d gotten “fat and bald,” and he had. But he’d been surrounded by family love in both Mexico and Florida, a nurturing sort of love that he’d never experienced to such a degree with blood relatives, and when I saw him thus, I was happy for him.
I’ll never know if Luis realized what a gift he gave me with that story. The tale of his attempted suicide had broadened something within me. My compassion for Todd increased, and I could finally let go of some of the toxic sense of betrayal I’d harbored over his decision to leave behind his wife and newly-adopted daughter. I know now that when I go to that inner landscape to grapple with life’s difficulties, I will have a broader field on which to work my creative energy. Luis gave me that. And while I did realize it at the time, I suppressed an impulse to hug him. I did, however, tap one of his sock-covered toes and grab one of his shins and say, “I’m really glad you didn’t check out.” I said it as I was getting up to leave the room to go to bed. Luis was wearing me out.
“Yeah, me too!” he laughed.
He spent the entire next day with my son Jack, walking along the nearby train tracks, going into town for ice cream, and talking. The day after would be the day of Luis’ wreck, which remains a mystery. My neighbor says she saw the BMW stop abruptly – the engine likely seized up – and Luis pitch over the handlebars, landing on his head, which was protected only by a so-called “brain bucket,” i.e. a helmet mainly just for show. He’d left in our mudroom the helmet that likely would have saved his life.
But I focus on the day before, Friday, August 11th, 2006, when Luis and Jack hung out. That afternoon the two of them brought home a large rusted plate of iron with a railroad spike sticking out of it, which is still on the porch as I write this. Luis and Jack bonded that day. The accident and Luis’s subsequent death gave my then-eight-year-old son his first experience of grief. He cried many times with Holly and me between my trips to and from the hospital ICU.
Luis had sent Jack a T-shirt from Mexico emblazoned with a bandanna-wearing chulo on the front, and a low-rider with flames around it on the back. It’s too big, so it has become a nightshirt. Jack pulled it over his head a few evenings ago and wept. But he left it on and it kept him warm as he slept.