This is an amazing story that really moved me. It's from ubersite, but I'm posting it here so you guys can read it w/o having to follow a link offsite. I am not the author.
Here's the original link: http://www.ubersite.com/m/79683
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"My-Friend-John-What-Kicked-All-Ass"
I write this at the risk of sounding like a long-winded country song.
This part I heard: My friend John lived in SoCal for the first part of his life. His dad was, well, elsewhere, his mom was a corporate lawyer and he was a tall skinny pothead electrician reasonably good at both being a pothead and at being an electrician. He had a job that provided him enough income to support being single and regularly high in West LA, and also to indulge his hobby, The Red Car. A 1966 Chevy Nova SS (or Chevy II, if you like) that he bought bone stock in 1972, when he was about 17 years old. John enjoyed surfing and hanging at the beach, but he really loved to drag race and street race. He was always going to make The Red Car into the Ultimate Streeter. In the meantime, he kept it on the road and raced as often as he could. Even ran it a Pomona, where God races on Wednesday Test & Tune.
Around the age of 22 he found, like many people do, that the circumstances of his life dictated a change of venue. In John's case, a rapid change of venue. One fast bankruptcy hearing and a week of convincing his mom the lawyer that he'd be back for his stuff soon, he was off to Ohio where he had a cousin. He had to leave The Red Car in his mom's garage, "just for a while". A while later, he moved to Indiana for a job. He had a couple more jobs, and moved a couple more times, always in Indiana or Ohio.
The rest I know: In Indiana is where I met John, at a job. He was a regular guy with occasional girlfriends and a passion for old fast cars and beer. We started hanging out because I had an interest in girls and old fast cars and beer too. Guys are like that. I'm a Ford guy, he was a Chevy guy, I'm an ale guy, he was a pilsener guy, so we had great times berating the other's brands of choice. Guys are like that, too. John ran the CAD system where we worked. On occasion, when mentioning John to others, I'd refer to him as "my-friend-John-what-runs-the-CAD-system".
John could cook. One winter day I stopped by after work and he was making fish tacos. Fish tacos in Indiana, where the State Meal is a pork tenderloin sandwich and corn on the cob all washed down with a giant glass of milk. So I tried one, and it was fucking great. John was feeling a bit homesick, so he took his mom's telephone-delivered advice and made some home-style food. John became "my-friend-John-what-makes-most-excellent-surfer-food" as we munched fish tacos and drank Coors Light and he talked about surfing and racing and old girlfriends and The Red Car and what he was going to do with it once he got it out of the garage.
One day after I had moved on from that job, John decided that he was bored with the CAD work and quit. He just went home one Tuesday afternoon and didn't come in again. Eventually he called in and told the boss he was done. So, John stayed home, watching daytime TV and drinking Coors Light and getting high on occasion for two and a half years. How fucking cool is that? Depends on your perspective, I guess. During this time I jokingly referred to him as "my-friend-John-what ain't-got-no-job".
John was spending some time thinking of ways he could get The Red Car out of his mom's garage, since he was now almost 40 and hadn't done anything with the car beyond pulling the cover off and sitting in it on five occasions in about 18 years. After looking through alternately the Jeg's racing parts catalog and his bank statements for a while, John decided he'd best get employed. After a few weeks, John was able to land a gig at a TV station. He started in maintenance but quickly started filling in on the 'board', running taped shows, punching local commercials into the national broadcast programs, and entering the 'crawl' text on the local news. "My-friend-John-what-until-recently-ain't-got-no-job" evolved into "my-friend-John-what-crawls-at-work" or "my-friend-John-what-is in-'the-business'" over the next few weeks.
John saved enough money by working a lot to start buying a few parts and eventually move out of his apartment and into a rental house with a garage. Eventually he flew out to SoCal and, after 20 years, loaded The Red Car onto a transport truck for the trip to Indiana. He flew back and was waiting for it when it arrived. The Red Car did not run, of course, but he and the truck driver pushed it up the driveway and into the garage. It went onto jackstands and "my-friend-John-what-has-The-Red-Car" started making with the wrenches. He bought parts and wrenched a lot. Progress was made on The Red Car.
One day while shaving, John noticed that his eyes were yellow. A trip to the doctor, some tests, a biopsy, a stint, some chemo and two months later "my-friend-John-what-has-inoperable-type-four-pancreatic-cancer" was 30 pounds lighter and notably weaker. It was all he could do to get out to the garage and work on The Red Car for a little bit each day. His ultracool boss at work just let it be known that John was 'working at home on some maintenance issues' so he was getting paid and the insurance was covering the treatments.
After one particular trip to the cancerdoc, John accepted the fact that he was not going to be able to finish The Red Car. As I was the closest of his friends, I got to be the secretary as he made sure he laid out everything he had planned for it. Parts, installation tricks, tweaks, scope of work, everything. I took copious notes. He was "my-friend-John-what-has-a-plan".
John invited some of his surfer friends from SoCal out to Indiana in the middle of the winter of 2003. I showed up to meet them and we all sat around in John's house drinking "our-friend-John-what-has-an-amazing-calmness-about-what's-about-to-occur"'s Coors Light and talking about how much snow sucks and what they all did together in SoCal back when everything was alright. John got tired and wanted to rest, so we all went out to the garage and wrenched on The Red Car for a few hours, each of us taking shifts sitting with John in case he needed anything. We took a million pictures and brought the camera a lot in so John could review what we were up to and advise or concur.
About 8:00 pm the doorbell rang. It was a guy asking for John. John called out to "let ol' Buddy in!" Buddy was John's weed dealer. "My-friend-John-what-is-always-nauseous" was smoking a bit of weed to keep the pain down and make him hungry. His dealer delivered. How cool was that? Doesn't depend on your perspective in the fucking least - it's very cool. We decided that Buddy was a hell of a guy, and hit him up for a little extra, you know, for us.
John got weaker. I stopped by every day, or couple days. He had an in-home hospice caregiver. She was new at the hospice thing and got kind of nervous at a guy who was 6 ft. 4 inches and 95 pounds asking her to raise him up in the chair when he slumped down. Her main function was to make sure "my-friend-John-what-Jesus-Christ-holy-fuck-might-really-might-be-fucking-dying"'s cigarettes didn't set the chair on fire and to get him to the bathroom when it was necessary. He wasn't eating anymore so that wasn't too much of a burden on her.
One day a guy from the hospital showed up and set up a morphine pump. The weed just wasn't working anymore. The hospice lady made sure the connections were correct and they showed John how to punch the button for more poppy juice. "My-friend-John-what-loves-him-some-new-experiences" had the strength for that, you bet. He hit the button once, and then again, and again, and again despite the fact that the device only delivers the prescribed dosage in any time period. When the morphine began to work, John said, "This is the best buzz I've ever had." And then he died.
At John's funeral I said a few words about why I thought "my-friend-John-what-also-likes-good-beer" was a good guy and a friend and all that crap. I said that he had taught me about focusing on what's important rather than what seems important. That was true.
John left me The Red Car in his will because I like girls and old fast cars and beer and so did he. "My-friend-John-what-is-an-evil-genius" made sure that The Red Car would run again, even if a Ford guy had to make it so. Fucker.
There is a basket in the front seat of The Red Car right now. In the basket is a T-shirt from the Pomona Raceway, a baggy of beach sand and shells from John's favorite surfing beach, a bottle of Coors Light, John's favorite dope pipe, and a tin of ashes from My Friend John. Some time in the not-too-distant future, John's ashes will make an 11-second pass in The Red Car. I promised his mom.
Here's the original link: http://www.ubersite.com/m/79683
--------------
"My-Friend-John-What-Kicked-All-Ass"
I write this at the risk of sounding like a long-winded country song.
This part I heard: My friend John lived in SoCal for the first part of his life. His dad was, well, elsewhere, his mom was a corporate lawyer and he was a tall skinny pothead electrician reasonably good at both being a pothead and at being an electrician. He had a job that provided him enough income to support being single and regularly high in West LA, and also to indulge his hobby, The Red Car. A 1966 Chevy Nova SS (or Chevy II, if you like) that he bought bone stock in 1972, when he was about 17 years old. John enjoyed surfing and hanging at the beach, but he really loved to drag race and street race. He was always going to make The Red Car into the Ultimate Streeter. In the meantime, he kept it on the road and raced as often as he could. Even ran it a Pomona, where God races on Wednesday Test & Tune.
Around the age of 22 he found, like many people do, that the circumstances of his life dictated a change of venue. In John's case, a rapid change of venue. One fast bankruptcy hearing and a week of convincing his mom the lawyer that he'd be back for his stuff soon, he was off to Ohio where he had a cousin. He had to leave The Red Car in his mom's garage, "just for a while". A while later, he moved to Indiana for a job. He had a couple more jobs, and moved a couple more times, always in Indiana or Ohio.
The rest I know: In Indiana is where I met John, at a job. He was a regular guy with occasional girlfriends and a passion for old fast cars and beer. We started hanging out because I had an interest in girls and old fast cars and beer too. Guys are like that. I'm a Ford guy, he was a Chevy guy, I'm an ale guy, he was a pilsener guy, so we had great times berating the other's brands of choice. Guys are like that, too. John ran the CAD system where we worked. On occasion, when mentioning John to others, I'd refer to him as "my-friend-John-what-runs-the-CAD-system".
John could cook. One winter day I stopped by after work and he was making fish tacos. Fish tacos in Indiana, where the State Meal is a pork tenderloin sandwich and corn on the cob all washed down with a giant glass of milk. So I tried one, and it was fucking great. John was feeling a bit homesick, so he took his mom's telephone-delivered advice and made some home-style food. John became "my-friend-John-what-makes-most-excellent-surfer-food" as we munched fish tacos and drank Coors Light and he talked about surfing and racing and old girlfriends and The Red Car and what he was going to do with it once he got it out of the garage.
One day after I had moved on from that job, John decided that he was bored with the CAD work and quit. He just went home one Tuesday afternoon and didn't come in again. Eventually he called in and told the boss he was done. So, John stayed home, watching daytime TV and drinking Coors Light and getting high on occasion for two and a half years. How fucking cool is that? Depends on your perspective, I guess. During this time I jokingly referred to him as "my-friend-John-what ain't-got-no-job".
John was spending some time thinking of ways he could get The Red Car out of his mom's garage, since he was now almost 40 and hadn't done anything with the car beyond pulling the cover off and sitting in it on five occasions in about 18 years. After looking through alternately the Jeg's racing parts catalog and his bank statements for a while, John decided he'd best get employed. After a few weeks, John was able to land a gig at a TV station. He started in maintenance but quickly started filling in on the 'board', running taped shows, punching local commercials into the national broadcast programs, and entering the 'crawl' text on the local news. "My-friend-John-what-until-recently-ain't-got-no-job" evolved into "my-friend-John-what-crawls-at-work" or "my-friend-John-what-is in-'the-business'" over the next few weeks.
John saved enough money by working a lot to start buying a few parts and eventually move out of his apartment and into a rental house with a garage. Eventually he flew out to SoCal and, after 20 years, loaded The Red Car onto a transport truck for the trip to Indiana. He flew back and was waiting for it when it arrived. The Red Car did not run, of course, but he and the truck driver pushed it up the driveway and into the garage. It went onto jackstands and "my-friend-John-what-has-The-Red-Car" started making with the wrenches. He bought parts and wrenched a lot. Progress was made on The Red Car.
One day while shaving, John noticed that his eyes were yellow. A trip to the doctor, some tests, a biopsy, a stint, some chemo and two months later "my-friend-John-what-has-inoperable-type-four-pancreatic-cancer" was 30 pounds lighter and notably weaker. It was all he could do to get out to the garage and work on The Red Car for a little bit each day. His ultracool boss at work just let it be known that John was 'working at home on some maintenance issues' so he was getting paid and the insurance was covering the treatments.
After one particular trip to the cancerdoc, John accepted the fact that he was not going to be able to finish The Red Car. As I was the closest of his friends, I got to be the secretary as he made sure he laid out everything he had planned for it. Parts, installation tricks, tweaks, scope of work, everything. I took copious notes. He was "my-friend-John-what-has-a-plan".
John invited some of his surfer friends from SoCal out to Indiana in the middle of the winter of 2003. I showed up to meet them and we all sat around in John's house drinking "our-friend-John-what-has-an-amazing-calmness-about-what's-about-to-occur"'s Coors Light and talking about how much snow sucks and what they all did together in SoCal back when everything was alright. John got tired and wanted to rest, so we all went out to the garage and wrenched on The Red Car for a few hours, each of us taking shifts sitting with John in case he needed anything. We took a million pictures and brought the camera a lot in so John could review what we were up to and advise or concur.
About 8:00 pm the doorbell rang. It was a guy asking for John. John called out to "let ol' Buddy in!" Buddy was John's weed dealer. "My-friend-John-what-is-always-nauseous" was smoking a bit of weed to keep the pain down and make him hungry. His dealer delivered. How cool was that? Doesn't depend on your perspective in the fucking least - it's very cool. We decided that Buddy was a hell of a guy, and hit him up for a little extra, you know, for us.
John got weaker. I stopped by every day, or couple days. He had an in-home hospice caregiver. She was new at the hospice thing and got kind of nervous at a guy who was 6 ft. 4 inches and 95 pounds asking her to raise him up in the chair when he slumped down. Her main function was to make sure "my-friend-John-what-Jesus-Christ-holy-fuck-might-really-might-be-fucking-dying"'s cigarettes didn't set the chair on fire and to get him to the bathroom when it was necessary. He wasn't eating anymore so that wasn't too much of a burden on her.
One day a guy from the hospital showed up and set up a morphine pump. The weed just wasn't working anymore. The hospice lady made sure the connections were correct and they showed John how to punch the button for more poppy juice. "My-friend-John-what-loves-him-some-new-experiences" had the strength for that, you bet. He hit the button once, and then again, and again, and again despite the fact that the device only delivers the prescribed dosage in any time period. When the morphine began to work, John said, "This is the best buzz I've ever had." And then he died.
At John's funeral I said a few words about why I thought "my-friend-John-what-also-likes-good-beer" was a good guy and a friend and all that crap. I said that he had taught me about focusing on what's important rather than what seems important. That was true.
John left me The Red Car in his will because I like girls and old fast cars and beer and so did he. "My-friend-John-what-is-an-evil-genius" made sure that The Red Car would run again, even if a Ford guy had to make it so. Fucker.
There is a basket in the front seat of The Red Car right now. In the basket is a T-shirt from the Pomona Raceway, a baggy of beach sand and shells from John's favorite surfing beach, a bottle of Coors Light, John's favorite dope pipe, and a tin of ashes from My Friend John. Some time in the not-too-distant future, John's ashes will make an 11-second pass in The Red Car. I promised his mom.
