I had a yuck McDonald's burger as a night snack, somehow suddenly convinced I would die from lack of red meat. Or maybe I would die without stale bread. That would have taken care of that too. Sometimes gross is otherworldly. And sometimes otherworldly is only 99 cents, 1.08 with tax. Eternal damnation should be so cheap... Hmm, the McD's ad campaign: Eat it or be damned in hell forever. Those guys should hire me. It's the millennia, and we need old testament consequences to our advertising. Taco Bell: buy a grande combonation meal and get forty days and forty nights of pepsi, free. Gosh.

On December 2 a friend from high school emailed me to say Jana Duncan Cullum had just died. I was sitting in a convention center in Boston in a suit with a lanyard around my neck and my laptop on my knees. The wi-fi was spotty, so as I was replying and we were covering the details, I was getting up and walking around holding the computer up on my palm, hunting for a signal.


Jana and Leslie, on a band trip to East Tennessee, 1989 (age 15)

I knew Jana as Jana Duncan. We had gone to school together, both from the same small town. Although we hadn't spoken in ages, there had been a time when we were good friends. At least I think we were. Memories are notoriously faulty, and after a while you might have trouble distinguishing between actual occurrences and ideas you had. Sticking to the concrete is the only way to be foolproof.

Concrete: in 8th grade Jana and I were voted "Most Intelligent" boy and girl in that unhealthy poll junior high school kids are forced to participate in. Those things are awful. In 12th grade we were voted "Most Likely to Succeed." Why the pair of us, always together? This means both our junior high and high school yearbooks have a picture of us together, under the heading MOST SOMETHING. We thought it was funny. Jana signed my high school yearbook: "I'll never forget you, because you're in all my pictures." I haven't seen those pictures in a long time, but I have them in my head: as 13-year-olds we look like children. At 18 we are essentially grown-ups.


Stacey, Lori, Leslie, and Jana

Friends from high school have died before. Jason Halliburton, a preacher's son whom I used to steal street signs with, was shot and killed when we were 19. Jerry Curtis, a friend who could draw really well, was hit by a car a decade ago. But those were both dramatic, violent deaths. Jana died of cancer, far too young for such a thing to seem fair.

Jana was a good person. So much so that I can't imagine a single person on Earth would disagree with that statement. Me, I'm certainly not the devil incarnate, but I'm also not nearly so good. Yet here I sit on a Monday night, drinking a beer and typing. Life'll kill you, it's true. The cruelest part is who knows when, and for no reason whatsoever.


On the freshman bus

Stories are the best part of life, so I've tried to remember stories. The one that sticks in my head the best was a party at Lori Wiseman's house, maybe when we're all about 14. The garage was full of stuff, like garages tend to be, and we were playing darts in there. My friend Chris and I were singing Anthrax all night. Someone had the idea: let's play the game where you draw names and a guy and a girl have to go in the closet for five minutes together. No one objected, so names were drawn--it was Ronald and Jana.

Oooo, everyone said. Ronald was laughing. Jana kept saying "I don't know what you think's going to happen, Ronald." But the game must go on, because those are the rules. We hadn't secured a closet yet. Through the house, we are searching, what closet can we use?

"What closet can we use? We can't use that one." "I hope you don't think anything is going to happen, Ronald." "Ha ha ha." "How about that one?"

Our plans come to a halt, because Lori's sister--a senior in high school I think--is suddenly there. "What's this about a closet? Why do you all need a closet??" She is furious. The gig is up.

I think little things, details, are important. I wonder what you were thinking then, Jana. How glad were you when Lori's sister busted us? Or, who knows, maybe you weren't happy. The important thing is that you were thinking something. And no one who wonders what it was can ask you anymore. That's the tragedy of life. So many pieces of the story disappear.