My oldest friend died young
We woke up in bed together, an empty bottle of Tito’s between us. We were at the FOUND:RE hotel in Phoneix where we were staying and celebrating my bachelorette party, just over a year ago. The rest of our party left the night before — three to go home to their kids, while one sneaked off to see an ex-boyfriend — so it was just Aaron and me.
Relax — we were both dressed and Aaron was gay.
After the other ladies left, Aaron and I opened a bottle of vodka and started reminiscing about growing up in Humboldt, Iowa. He hated it. I hated it. But his hatred was more valid than mine. Humboldt was a town made up of 5,000 mostly-white people, many of whom weren’t kind or accepting of anyone who dared be different.
That night in bed together, before passing out, Aaron cried to me about how cruel some people were to him — the bullying, the name calling, the violence. Thirty-three years had come and gone but the pain was still there. Although Aaron felt pain, he didn’t live in it.
Growing up, we lived a short moped ride away from each other’s houses — and within the delivery zone of Godfather’s Pizza. Aaron’s mom, Pat, worked nights so we usually had free reign of the house. We’d crank Madonna and Prince, gossip and dance, and then refuel on cheese breadsticks and Taco Pizza (it’s a Midwest thing). We’d do photoshoots. Aaron was insanely creative and at the time, had aspirations of being a photographer. Of course he was the first one in our class to have the coveted Madonna’s “SEX” book so he’d bring it out, lay it on his bed and ogle the risque photos. Some nights, he’d invite over boys I liked and leave us alone. The first time I got felt up was in Aaron’s upstairs bedroom.
At my house, we’d play with the Ouija board, talk to my mom while she waxed her mustache and then mine, eat cheese curds drenched in Ranch dressing from my family’s restaurant and get spooked by ghosts. My house was next to a funeral home and Aaron swore it was haunted.
One night, Aaron, my brother and I were in the living room watching “Beverly Hills, 90210” when a piece of metal, out of nowhere, flew across the room. The three of us looked at each other, screamed and ran outside into the snow, barefoot. On her way home from work my mom spotted us, running down the middle of the street and picked us up. Aaron didn’t go back into my house that night.
Not long after, Aaron would move. Pat did what any mother would do to protect her son. She moved him to Denver, Colorado. One of the many reasons he loved his mother so much. Aaron and I lost touch during this time, but later he would tell me how happy he was to get “the fuck out of Iowa.” He also loved being close to his sister, Angie and most of all, his niece, Erika.
We reconnected again later, on Facebook and picked up right where we left off. He soon visited me in Phoenix and asked me to go buy poppers with him at Castle Megastore. The clerk told him they didn’t sell poppers. Aaron was beside himself and let everyone around know it. Finally the salesclerk asked, with a wink, “Do you mean tape head cleaner?” as she handed him a bottle of poppers.
“Oh for fuck’s sake. Arizona is so stupid,” Aaron told her before buying several bottles.
This is one of the things I loved most about Aaron — he would say whatever he was thinking. He was unapologetically himself and didn’t edit himself or conform for anyone. He was Aaron to everyone, not just me.
He surrounded himself with strong women. Just like the three main ladies in his life, Pat, Angie and Erika. Well four, if you count his dog, Momo. He loved them fiercely. He called his mom his “heart,” Erika his “baby girl” and would ask his sister, “How many goddam initials do you need after your name?”
He was kind. He was a safe place to go. His door was always open for the holidays or for a movie, BBQ or swim. He loved his friends’ kids.
He was joy. If you didn’t laugh when Aaron was around something is wrong with you.
He was generous. When he would rid himself of perfectly good or new things, like furniture or art, simply because he was “over it.” He’d go to his friends and say, “Take what you want. Sell it, keep it, I don’t care.”
He was honest. Sometimes brutally and always well-intended.
He had an eye for style. Aaron loved interior design and was constantly redecorating his apartment. He’d say, “Girl, come over. We need to change some shit.”
He was fun. Always up for a good time or adventure, Aaron loved hiking, tubing the Salt River, DisneyLand, good food and music — especially Stevie Nicks.
He was your cheerleader. He was genuinely happy for and proud of you when you did well. And if he saw you struggling, he’d push you to do better. He’d say, “Well here’s what you’re not gonna do.”
He was a Virgo. He was proud of this, read his horoscope and would remind whomever he needed to of his astrological traits.
He loved dill pickles. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one he talked into doing Pickleback shots.
He had great catch phrases. “I’m gonna need you to not.” “I can’t.” “For sure for sure.” “So what you’re not gonna do is…” “Just no.”
He was a force. Aaron touched everyone he met.
He is unforgettable.
As I’m sure you’ve guessed by now: Aaron died. He was 43 years old and suffered from kidney and liver failure. I never knew how bad his alcoholism was. I never knew how sad he was. And I could have never imagined how heartbroken I’d be.
Despite the pandemic, I flew to Denver for his service. It felt bizarre being there without him. I felt like a traitor while running along the Platte River trail and drinking in the beauty. I felt guilty when I went shopping at a thrift store. He should be doing these things with me, I thought.
And then, I delivered the above eulogy at his service. Let me preface: Before he passed away, Aaron asked me to write his eulogy and not make it boring. Also, I didn’t know we’d be in a church — he wasn’t religious. But, for social distancing sake, it was the largest place we could get.
Anyway, I swore in church, in honor of Aaron. The pastor was miffed and that’s how I know Aaron really was with me the whole time.
