Who Taught You To Masturbate? Rest, Randy Potratz.
Who taught you to masturbate? It’s hard to believe that you just accidentally stumbled into those electric convulsions. Who showed you? Remember that person today. Be grateful. Go somewhere quiet, close your eyes, and bite your bottom lip.
*
The first thing, without a doubt, is the trampoline. A rectangle. That yellow painted iron frame, chipped and rusty—before all the pads, the cages, safety. The AC/DC blaring out your upstairs window. Whole Lotta Rosie. “42-39-56! You could say she’s got it allllllll!” Old Freddie Alger (dead now) yelling to turn that shit down. Ignoring him with deep back drops and flips while flashing middle fingers. Jumping. Jumping. Taking turns—overcoming ourselves and each other with tricks. Trying to catch that big fish: the-backflip-and-a-half-with-a-full-twist. How many hours did we spend in your backyard? Entire summers, no? Lifetimes? How many lives ago? I was in Michigan this past summer, 2011. I ran by your house and thought about stopping—but didn’t. Toss it on my pile of things to never live down. How was I supposed to know you’d sustain a fatal head injury four days ago?
Then the oldest story. My parents moving in two houses down. You, four-years-old, on their front steps with a question before they even unloaded the truck: You got any kids? My brother Jeff was two and me? Only almost someone, in my mom’s belly. Friends before I was born. And then when I saw you in 2000 in that empty Muskegon bar, you were crying. Said you were going to kill yourself. I told you to go home, man, sleep it off. I said something about tomorrow. This is the way memory happens.
Hammers pounding bent rusty nails into stolen pieces of plywood from the back lot of Lappo Lumber. We built forts in the woods with secret compartments for cigarettes, stolen candy, Playboy magazines. That’s where you taught me. You called it whacking off. You told me there was no such thing as Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny or the Tooth Fairy. When Bill married my mom, you told me he fucked her and I wondered what you meant. You said He puts his dick in her pussy and whacks off inside her. Do you remember when the pastor across the street beat me on the back with that whiffle ball bat for stealing second? You were outraged. We sat in the woods beside their house blaring Highway To Hell all day long. They told us to go home or they’d call the cops but you just turned it up.
You were the best bad things, Randy Potratz. You shot me, motherfucker.
We—me, you, and Jeff—played Atari at our house and Odyssey at yours until one of our mothers called out front doors. We shared lunches, dinners, snacks. Slept through nights with flashlights in tents pitched out back. We built igloos across the street in the church’s plowed snow hills and rode sleds down the dunes at Hoffmaster park. We raced bikes till streetlights popped on after dark. I can’t remember. When did we grow up? How?
And finally. You, four years older, buying us beer when we were 17, 18, 19. I remember Dan Parker doing a somersault at the top of your stairs. I remember you asking us to hang for awhile, to chill out and drink a beer with you but there was always the next party to go to; it was getting dark.
And then my mom called yesterday to say you were dead. Forty-three is too young, Randy. It’s too fucking young to tie up all the loose ends. There’s nothing profound for me to say. Who knows why any of us do anything? There is only this senseless ritual of taking my dick up in my hand again.
*
Rest, Randy Potratz, if such a thing is possible.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Reader Comments (16)
Oh mate I'm sorry. That's way too young.
This is a beautiful tribute.
[..................]
xo
I haven't lost a close childhood friend yet. I'm sorry you have.
I am so sorry. Too young. Way too young.
damn. 43 is too young. I'm sorry.
"You were the best bad things, Randy Potratz."
so sorry for that loss. that is too young. don't let it mess with you too much. xo
Sorry about Randy. Maybe an orgasm really is like a little death. xo
Ah, shit. I'm sorry.
That might be my favorite Neil Young line, too.
Anyway.
words, and that.
I'm sorry. xo
Forty fucking three. God. That hurts. I'm sorry, man.
So sorry.
...man, that ain't oil, that's blood. wonder what he was thinking when he hit that storm, or was he just lost in the flood?
farewell, Jon's friend.
interesting... i think we're both from muskegon. ridiculously small world.
sorry to hear about your friend. way too young to leave this world.
I'm from Muskegon too and grew up going to Hoffmaster with my parents... very small world. So sorry to hear about your best of childhood friend. Keep your head up.
Man, those friends that are the bad good influences - they're the best.