Remembering Michael Portis..

The Day Michael Died

I tried to have a talk with God today. Michael died.  

I was driving a crooked road, winding and tooling down a mighty hill, descending to the Columbia River, on an overcast day in east Oregon, hundreds of miles away and hours after as it turns out.  

I’d just called him you see. I hadn’t talked to Michael for a while. I may have left a message. I may have not. I missed him you see, wanted to hear his voice, his laugh, to share some things that were on my mind and hear what was on his. To hear him say “I understand” and pontificate and joke and be there with me on that long, grey road winding down to the Columbia River in East Oregon, miles from home and hours after as it turns out.     

And then I saw he was calling me, and I reached across the dash, glad that he was there. But he wasn’t there. It was God, telling me Michael had pushed on into the great beyond today and that he would not be coming back.  

Nothing personal, nothing I needed to feel confused or sad or apologetic about, he had just pushed off you see and left. He’d given what he had to give and had nothing further to give us. He was gone.  

I asked God what condition there is in death and where we go and whether it be a happy occasion or a serious misfortune, but God keeps those vital answers close to its vest and the news seemed like a crazy, surreal dream we’d awaken from and have a big laugh about, later, over a drink and a game maybe, and some snacks on trays and….. Well, because people as light as Michael cannot possibly be so serious to have pushed on into the great beyond. This did not add up. 

Explain this “Great Beyond!” I demanded as I cried. God only replied Michael is dead and he will not be back, not be back, not be back… and thus I should weep as much as I needed and not ponder the great mystery and recall what he’d left me and then be silent.  

So. God will not say where Michael has gone and whether it be good or where or how or why and I wept again in my ignorance, despite my longing to be comforted by some sensible explanation.  

I said to God, “I did not get to say goodbye or give any thought that I needed to do so. I never imagined he would get up and go like this and disappear you see, and if I didn’t know him I’d almost call it impolite. Michael never left anywhere suddenly. He always lingered and repeated that he had to go and then would chat some more and more and more and after several rounds of this repeated would, in the end, go home.  I had no plans to say goodbye, you see, no cause for concern.” 

I said to God, “We were just talking about the best brand of headset he might buy and I recommended the one I use for talking on the phone, the same one I had on when I answered the call from you, the same one I have on now, dictating this. I thought maybe he had it on his head when he called. So he can’t be gone because he still needs to buy it. We were just watching the Super Bowl you see, hundreds of miles apart, trying to sync together the broadcast, to be in step, inside the same motion of time, so neither of us would be a little ahead or a little behind the other.  And we were in sync. It took a little doing because both of us are technically not gifted and slightly idiots but we had to be in sync so I wouldn’t jump up and cheer before he’d seen what happened. Otherwise, what was the point if the game be ruined? . We’d tackled the tickly task together and found sync. " 

We’re out of sync now.

He skipped ahead without me? Hung up the phone. He’s out of step now, knowing what happens. He knows what you’re keeping so damned silent about. And I called God an “asshole” I think. And then I apologized and cried some more.  

I should have pulled over, but I was tooling down that mighty hill, descending to the Columbia River, on a depressing overcast day in east Oregon, hundreds of miles away and hours after as it turns out. 

I feel hard pressed to keep driving without him. By myself it feels so empty. I know not if God or death be light or dark. I know not if where we go be warm or cold. I only know Michael left suddenly and won’t be back.   

We never discussed either of us departing. Even if the hour be known we’d both have agreed there was nothing much to say on the subject.  And I suspect he must still be here somewhere, lingering silently behind the shadows, because it wasn’t like him to leave suddenly. With phone in hand, he could have called, should have called, been on that other end of the line, but never did and never will again. How easy it seems he must have drifted up from that chair. So, unlike him. 

Something must have come over him. As I say, he never left anywhere quickly. No, he always drew it out and lingered and procrastinated even when the hour was late, even when he had somewhere to go or something to do and when we were tired, even when our hearts were heavy with satiation, Michael stayed and stayed and stayed and how now has he gone? How is that possible? 

I admitted to God, Michael insisted on being my friend. There were times I was too busy, too caught up in doing what I had to do, or too pressed for time to find a moment for him. Michael wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. He invited himself if need be!  

And he gave me a book once to motivate me to do what he knew I needed to do, to be happy and complete. He was a sly one that Michael. A sly dog who slipped in advice without you ever knowing it, hiding criticism inside a compliment, in his own tricky way, with a gentle hand on your shoulder. If he ever felt judgment, he never shared it with me. You see he gave me this book because he wanted me to do what I was put on this Earth to do and he gave me the book he’d used to do what he was put on this Earth to do. 

Out of that book arose a pink flamingo, endearing and light and unafraid, who glommed on to a group of kids (a group to which he didn’t belong) and escaped. I still have that book. I still hold it in my pocket. He left without saying goodbye, but he left me this book.  

“What did I give him?” God asked.  I can’t recall. Come to think of it, I don’t think I ever gave Michael a single useful piece of information, possibly because he had no need of it. Maybe he was always miles ahead, skipping forward in moments of time before me.  He was, after all, a little older and arrived before me, out of the Great Beyond, before it was a “beyond”, when it was simply back there somewhere, before the beginning.

I wonder if he’s as angry about this thing as I am? The unfairness of it. But then he was never angry, never cross, or raging as I often am, never waving a finger or storming out of a room. Even when he disagreed with me, he never gave me the satisfaction of being an asshole about it, never making me feel as if he had the answer and I didn’t. I suspect when he was in school, he was the kind of fool who would let you look over his shoulder during a test and then praise you when your test score was better than his.  

Michael warned me once with a great piece of advice I ignored. Best advice I ever got. He offered it as an observation, one of those clever pieces of criticism he wrapped inside a harmless question, in a lost attempt to save my children’s college funds. He didn’t clear his throat and tell me I was unwise to wander around in the thorny, thickety, rainforest of Wall Street. He never said, “You don’t know what you’re doing and you’re going to get killed.” No. That sly dog he asked me a question: “How do you know?” How did I know which direction to go? I didn’t but thought I did. He too had lost a fortune. He tried to warn me but I didn’t understand. Though I know the answer I didn’t escape and I was trapped. 

No wonder God is silent. I wouldn’t much understand anyway. 

Michael could’ve chastised me. He must’ve known. Must have secretly known I’d be crushed by the black fog of those scary years because I’d stopped talking about the markets and stopped being an expert, chattering on and on as if I knew what I was talking about. But that sly dog he waited until the day I told him and he did not tell me I told you so. He never said you should have listened.  He just stuck that little business card of his into my shirt pocket and patted me on the shoulder. He was like that, easy and warm. He was too light to be gone like this so suddenly and easy.  

I wish I’d been a better friend.  

I know not if God be real and death be the end, or why Michael was amazed by my ability to jump ahead and say what the play-by-play announcers would say before they said it. It was a cheap trick you know, not a gift or genius, a stupid, useless skill honed from decades of becoming familiar with tired repetitions. 

Michael was always on whatever side I rooted for and always queried me about the teams and conditions and status and roles and rules and probabilities and asked his endless questions with a naïve innocence and a genuine thirst to know, not afraid to admit he did not know something or understand. Michael made you feel smart.  

And that sly dog I believe was never truly invested in which team won or lost, but simply fascinated by the contest and uncertainty of it all, divorced from the life-and-death-stake-your-heart on the home team insanity that ran through my veins. Though he rose and fell with me he did not join me in my injuries. His mind was always running and chattered throughout the contests on every subject imaginable. He was neutral like Switzerland but always on my side. And he always stayed after. Win or lose. Lingering. Have I said, Michael never left anywhere quickly? 

I don’t know where he’s gone. I asked God where he is, what he might be watching or who with or whether he is simply silent and still now, in perpetuity. I wanted to know he was ok. And God said he was, although it wouldn’t elaborate. 

Michael left suddenly and will not be back. This should not be a surprise since he was never fully sold on this material life thing. He thought it better to keep company and do art and love.   

 He knows what happens now and we do not, and though it seems unreal and unreasonable and maddening that he left in this way, I am better for having known him. And I must have always known he’d go quietly and painlessly like this. Silent.  

And I must not be selfish and ask for more than he could give. For he’s given what he could and has gone. If he were here, he’d tell me not to think the worst, for it would only be a random guess.  And he knows how negative I am. 

And I know one of these days I’ll pick up the phone and call him and stop to remember he is no longer available. Because I can’t wrap my head around his leaving. He was too light to be gone like this.

And I am driving a crooked road alone, winding and tooling down a mighty hill, descending to the Columbia River, knowing not of God and death, on an overcast day in east Oregon, hundreds of miles away and hours after as it turns out.