the heel press

I grew up listening to Meat Loaf, Bob Seger, Bruce Springsteen. The attitude in their voices, the honesty in their lyrics and their unapologetic way of being themself struck a chord in me. I began to idolize everything that came along with the rocker stereotype. If you go through my collection of MP3's, you’ll find many raspy-voiced singers with lyrics that range from the poetic to the political, or both.

You'll find art, classic, Detroit, garage, glam, and hard rock. There's instrumental rock, as well as emo, punk and power rock - to name a few. I have dresser drawers stuffed with band t-shirts, and a Sid Vicious doll that stands proudly on the bookshelf in my room. But it really is about the music - the message, and emotions that get conveyed from the first to the last note of a song. I’m the person that will put on a song, saying, "You have to listen to this!" I’ll make you mixed CD’s (which doesn’t have the same ring as the classic “mixed tapes”). I have songs for every occasion... even when I wish I didn’t.

When Macky died, when he killed himself, I was an ocean away. Back in Michigan my friends, his friends - our friends - were gathering together for his funeral, to reminisce and say goodbye. I never expected to feel trapped in England, a country I’d always wanted to visit and explore. I paced around my tiny apartment, walked around the neighborhood chain smoking. I frequently found myself headed subconsciously to the nearby graveyard when I wandered aimlessly on the cobbled streets of Earl’s Court, my home that summer. The graveyard held cement crosses and angel statues covered in moss. It was beautiful in a morbid way. There was peace lurking, hidden in the graves and the tall unkempt grass. I would listen to one song on repeat.

"I’m Dying Tomorrow” by Alkaline Trio might be considered a morbid song by some. The title itself tends to cause a few raised eyebrows. But it fit Macky. For 2 minutes and 32 seconds, Dan Andriano sings over an upbeat sounding,  pop-punk track a series of questions that function as a check list for things he wants to make sure he’s done before he dies.

I met Macky sometime in middle school. People who met him in the later years of his life called him Clint - his full name being Clinton McQueen III. He had tried to recreate himself, put distance between himself and his past, but I’ll always call him Macky.

Macky came out in 7th grade, breaking up with his girlfriend by telling her that he liked boys. He wore a hula skirt made out of plastic green leaves and a bright blue, pink, and green Hawaiian shirt to our 8th grade graduation because the theme for our graduation dance was tropical (and because he wanted to stand out in the sea of khaki, navy and black). He was my debate partner our Junior year of high school, and I joined the Gay Straight Alliance club he formed Senior year. I watched as he dropped almost 40 pounds way too fast to be healthy, and as he suffered from his mother’s suicide. I was there for him in only an insubstantial way, waiting for him to come to me if he wanted.

He seemed the epitome of the Rock ‘n’ Roll personality, clad in tight jeans and with an aura of rebellion. His over the top behavior, the cigarettes he smoked (sharing with me behind the school one night when we stayed late for some club), and his ability to shrug off other people’s opinions. He was my partner for my high school graduation walk- amusing me at the rehearsal with outlandish stories, and tales of his sexcapades when we were supposed to be paying attention.

He made me laugh, and being around him gave me a fuck-it-all attitude that made me feel like we were both invincible. When he slipped into the drugs that come with a rock ‘n’ roll persona, I turned a blind eye. The handful of times I saw him in college, when he came to visit me in East Lansing or when we both went to visit people in Ann Arbor, he was drunk or high - popping prescription pills I knew weren’t his. When Dan Andriano croons out, “Did I remember to sleep in,/ Take lots of pills?” I hear Macky’s first few checks.

The lyrics ask:
Did I remember to keep your beer as full as mine?
Did I remember to say cheers?
Did I at least try to make sure everybody had a good time?

Each time I hear them, it’s as if Macky’s asking me - and the answer to each one is yes. He was the kind of guy who was always there to fill up your cup, to encourage you to hit on the cute guy you had your eye on. He was an enabler and a constant supporter. Because he was so fun to be around, so accepting, it was easy to ignore his problems. To ignore the million warning signs he needed help that, looking back, are glaringly obvious. Easy to see that I should have confronted him, instead of waiting for him to come to me.

Dan Andriano sings:
Did I remember to stay up late-
Singing  for the fun
Drinking for the taste?

Again, Macky’s answers are yes, he did. I know because I was there with him. I only regret not being with him for the rest of the things in his life that had him so troubled. So I play the song, as both a warning and reminder - as a substitute for Macky when I need strength, or when I just want to think about him. And when the song hits the final “Did I do it right?” I choke back a “no.” I wish I could have let him know that he should have come to me, and how much he means to me. And I take solace in the fact that I’m still around to try to “do it right.”