Keith

I met Keith when I worked in the dish pit in Thomas hall in 1996. He had a shy smile. He wore a goatee and had chin length sandy brown hair. Often he would put it up in a ponytail to reveal that the underneath layer was shaved. What first drew me to him was the K Mart vest. While washing dishes and frequently around campus, he would don a red vest worn by K Mart employees. It featured the K Mart logo as well as a white pin-on name tag that read SATAN. Alas, I imagined a trip to the fiery depths of K Mart, being forced to walk the isles of disposable crap made by Asian slave children, only to find that the journey ends by handing your cash to Satan himself, standing erect behind the register in his molten red vest and name tag.

We somehow started talking and were drawn to each other as he was an Art major and I was a Music major. He had a crush on me, and I found it hard to return his affection, as I was not all that physically attracted to him. I tried to avoid him, but it was impossible as most of our classes were in the same building and we frequently worked together. If I managed to avoid him I would come home to my dorm room to find that my roommate had scrawled “Satan called” on the dry erase board. His was persistent - and that was certainly worth something.

As I got to know him I realized he was a wounded bird, and a scary wounded bird at that. He was from a small town and grew up in a trailer with his father. His mom was a long haul truck driver. He told me that when he was a kid he was so fat that the only clothes he could wear were overalls. A sensitive broken bird trapped in his personal redneck hell, Keith devoted his life to drawing and studying art. In his new found reality he conquered hell, rising up as Lord Satan, losing the weight of his pork rind childhood and leaving his weary hometown to be an artist. He did have a dark side. He was depressed and angry. His musical taste was Marilyn Manson, and bands I has never heard of with names like Cannibal Corpse. We hung out a few times. We made out a few times. Despite the fact that he had painted “I AM THE GOD OF FUCK” on the wall above his bed with laundry detergent (you know, so that you can only read it when you turn on the black lights), I found out that he was actually a virgin. I most certainly was not going to be responsible for deflowering this sensitive buttercup in a Cannibal Corpse T shirt. Even if he claimed he just wanted to finally get laid, I knew he was an artist and believed in true love. He wanted the first time to be with someone who loved him. I wanted that for him too. He wore this bad mushroomy cologne that many young men wore. His room reeked of it. And he had played me Cannibal Corpse and it was lame - in a mildly scary way. I told him I just wanted to be friends.

Soon after he found a girlfriend who did lay him. She was very tall and blond. My friend Mike and I frequently spotted her in Thomas Hall eating dinner in a yellow sweat suit. Intrigued by Keith and my stories about him, he took to calling his new girlfriend Big Bird. They were an odd pairing - the captain of the basketball team and the Prince of Darkness, who now could rightfully call himself a "God of Fuck". I would talk to him pretty regularly and he would freuqently remind me of what I was missing, as his new lady friend claimed his skills had become superb. He still wore the mushroom cologne. I was happy for him and glad he was obsessed with someone else.

As much as I accuse Keith of having been a tortured soul, I should admit that I was not much better - at all. I was terribly depressed and wrote awful poetry. Here is an example titled Soup:

Blood flows down moist flesh

Proving flesh is more than dust

Skin, more than a hollow crust

Enjoy being tragic

And being clique

In this party mask

This twisted clown face

This needle pen spouts the dark part of blood

Bitter syrup of pain

Cold spreads through densened bones

Growing like a fungus

Spreading, breeding snow and ice

Only this will end this chill

Watching insides run out

Bubbling soup of all endeavours

Warm, like before entering this cold, cold world

Little remains

One night that spring I was feeling terrible and lonely. As I had no one to go buy liquor for my under-aged self, I combined the remaining liquor I had, which was a bit of Montezema tequila and a bit of Skol vodka. I downed the nasty concoction and marched over to Keith’s room, poetry books in hand. I stood on his roommate’s bed and performed a poetry reading for him. I then layed on his roommates bed and let Keith sketch me naked. It was a beautiful drawing. I told him he could keep it for his portfolio.

Eventually Keith broke up with Big Bird and for the last two years I lived in our college town he had a girlfriend named Nina. He was excited that she was bisexual. I regularly socialized with them and Keith remained ever creepy. He and Nina went the the local strip club together and he had started decorating his room with raunchy porn. One weekend he was over at the house I rented with my friend Mike and a few other roomates while Mike’s mom was visiting. Keith was wearing a shirt that said “Fuck you, you fucking fuck”. His mom said she didn’t like him. She sensed that there was something truly evil about him and she was afraid of him. Mike placated her by telling her that it was all an act and part of his persona - he was really harmless. I understood where his mother was coming from though - I frequently felt the same.

In May of 1999 I was done with all my classes and left to student teach in the Chicago area. I remember my last night in town: It started out with me and one of my good friends drinking gin and tonics while skinny dipping in the baby pool in our back yard. It ended with Keith and Nina stopping by to give me the nude drawing. I treasured that drawing. Unfortunately I accidently left it hanging in an apartment I lived in in Chicago. I left it hanging until that last minute because I did not want to damage it and then forgot about it amid the chaos of moving. The next day I went back to get it and my former landlord, an old Italian man who barely spoke a word of English, claimed he had not seen it. I hope he is enjoying it.