For N.

The generations are erased, one after another, like chalk from a blackboard.

A Conversation with My Rheumatologist

“What are you reading?” I had to be delicate in answering his question. It was Moravagine by Blaise Cendrars, translated by Alan Brown and reissued by NYRB Classics. “It’s kind of a horror novel, I suppose, a modernist one, written by a Frenchman.” I could have gone on to say that it was about a serial murder of women, the titular Moravagine, and his sympathetic psychiatrist, who narrates the novel, but I was unsure of how to broach the topic of transgressive literature in a professional setting.

I was ready to let the matter drop when he picked up the book. He examined the cover, front and back, very carefully, adjusting his glasses. In working out the pronunciation of the title, he seemed to grasp what the novel was about. “Well,” he said after a pause, “you certainly read some interesting books.”

I had nothing to say to this, not directly; instead, I vaguely described my research and publishing interests, about how, during the early 20^th century, popular genres such as horror and mystery were more closely linked with so-called high literature. The two weren’t thought of as diametric opposites, as is commonly supposed today. The rheumatologist repeated his remark, that I certainly read interesting books.

I could have also gone on to say that, despite or perhaps because of the tasteless nature of the novel, it had some profound things to say about what we would now call mental health and the concept of health in general. “Diseases are,” states the psychiatrist narrator, early on.

We do not make or unmake them at will. We are not their masters. They make us, they form us. They may have even created us. They belong to this state of activity that we call life. They may be its main activity.

Reflecting on the degree to which chronic illness has molded my own life, I was inclined to agree with the narrator, even if he’s no less a madman than Moravagine himself. But instead of venturing into even more speculative, philosophical territory, my rheumatologist and I returned to the practical matter at hand. The medication I was taking, given its low dosage, could be increased.

“There are so many books to read,” he said as we were leaving the consultation room. I had to agree: “Hundreds of thousands are published every year.” “So many to read—old and new—interesting books.” He took one last look at Moravagine. “Some books are interesting, some of them are even good,” I added, unsure of how I felt about the novel. (I’m still unsure now.) “Some of them—right,” said my rheumatologist, “Some of them.”

For N.

I never heard him play a solitary note of music. I don’t think ever he did. I don’t remember. (That’s what I’m saying: I don’t remember.) Regardless, he had taste, a musician’s ear for good music, but he never pursued it, not even in the half unserious way the rest of us did, playing in basements and community halls, going up to Seattle or down to San Francisco, sleeping on floors, sleeping in tents, sleeping in the tour van. N. preferred to stay in town, was a homebody, was a hometown dude. Before he passed, he improvised his own sleeping arrangements too, but without that crucial matter of choice. It could all fall apart in such a short span for him, for N., and the only means he had to dignify that was a love of music.

Everyone who met him met him at a show, or at a party after a show. That was precisely how you met him. It could be any genre, any kind of band at any level of notoriety; he’d still be there regardless. He never played music, not that I remember, but he always was conspicuous at shows, easy to spot—a big dude with a big head, close cropped hair. He always stood up front, by the singer or the guitarist, nodding along, enraptured.

He had taste, hat an encyclopedic knowledge of various musical genres and subgenres, but rarely expressed that taste in a negative way. He rarely had a bad thing to say at all, except about himself, the way his health and his finances were going. The job I remember him being at the longest was at some kind of consumer research firm. He called people in to do in-person focus groups. He seemed to like the job until he hated it and it was taken away from him.

The last time I saw N. was at the memorial service for K., their death following quite soon after the death of another friend, C. Our crew was starting to dwindle prematurely. N. was having the same problems as C., addiction and homelessness, but we avoided those topics at the memorial service for K., who had not been homeless at the time of their death, but rather had been housed and employed, ostensibly healthy. It was all very sudden, all very surprising with K.. It was not surprising with C.; it wouldn’t be surprising for N. either.

The memorial for K. was held in a public school turned brewpub and event space. It was part of a regional chain that did that sort of thing, converting older, historic buildings into brewpubs and event spaces. Group photographs of the student body, mostly from the 1930s and 1940s, hung on the walls, along with the pennants and shelves loaded with trophies that the school teams had won. Our room was big, must have been some kind of gymnasium. Afternoon light poured in from high windows.

After the memorial for K., I went and talked with N. His booming voice, which you could easy set to laughing, had become quiet and hoarse. He’d grown thin, his hair wild, his nails long. I never noticed how delicate his hands were. He should have played the piano, should have played the guitar; they were articulate fingers, built for playing notes in rapid succession.

We talked about the usual bullshit—mostly about San Jose hardcore, I think, bands like Gulch and Sunami. Once you started talking with him, with N., it was easy to keep talking, so long as the topic was music. When the conversation turned to his own life, as it did after the memorial for K., then the talking became a lot more difficult. As usual, things weren’t going well. He left it mostly at that. He gestured to his dirty clothes, his wild hair. He might have mentioned his mother, who had recently died or was in the process of dying. He excused himself. There were other friends to catch up with.

I didn’t see him leave. I was stacking chairs, as if the memorial for K. was some kind of assembly or annual awards ceremony. The old trophies and photographs looked down on us, keepsakes of people whom we would never know and who had certainly passed away themselves. The generations are erased, one after another, like chalk from a blackboard.

A few others stopped by, mentioned that they were glad to see N., glad that he had managed to make it out to the memorial, though a few of them, from what I could tell, had taken the opportunity to catch up; that was a hard thing to do. N. had said as much himself. Mellow light filtered down from high windows, onto the student keepsakes, which had now become decorations, while outside, in the hallways, pubgoers were milling about, waiting to find their seats.