Ken was a beautiful young man; the guy all the girls wanted and the guy all the other guys wanted to be. He was tan, lean, and always laughing. He was short, but chiseled. His blond hair, blue eyes, and confident swagger got any girl into the sack in no time. That shit came easy for Ken. What didn't come easy for Ken was life outside the bedroom or bathroom stall.
Ken never drank to excess, unlike me who only stopped when I could no longer lift my arms. Ken liked his cocaine, though, probably a little too much, but in those days too much was never enough. Ken's family had money. They owned a couple gas stations or something like that. He saw me playing my drums once, so went out that weekend and bought a huge set for himself. Ken took me flying with him once, and did a deliberate stall, so he would have to restart the engine with enough time to pull out of a free fall- fucking insane.
Ken blew his brains out two weeks later in his basement. I heard there was some gray matter on his drums.
The funeral service looked like the catwalk of some heroin chic modeling show, except with running mascara and tears. Some people wailed. Some people sniffled. Some looked like zombies in shock, and some had moments of all three.
I'm pretty sure I cried for Ken- all that misery festering beneath one of the the most perfect masks God had ever created. My buddies thought it was open season on distraught hotties. I recall I was sitting in a hard chair.