Charles Is Dead & I Can't Get Him Out of My Head

Charles. He lived down the hall from me in college. He was tall, thin, dark brown skin and dyed bleach blonde hair. Charles was the center of my group in college in which everyone rotated. It was because of his humor that everyone listened to him but it was because of his temper that everyone followed. Charles had a roommate who was dirty and didn’t clean up after himself. By the 3rd week of the semester, Charles beat him with a stick-literally.
There were no serious injuries or charges pressed so the dorm assigned him a new roommate- my boyfriend. Some people might say Charles was innately angry. I like to say he was “very passionate.”
When someone dies, there are memories of them that inevitably emerge that are so vivid and detailed. This sometimes helps for one breathless second to compensate for the fact that they no longer exist. I believe it's because for that poignant moment, it feels as if they are alive somewhere….if only in your head.
Later in the semester I broke up with my boyfriend. Friends chose sides and only a few chose mine. My boyfriend partied. He did all kinds of drugs and always shared. I made hot coco and coffee during the winter months so my popularity was never as magnetic as his. After our break up I caught the flu so my dorm room was avoided with greater tenacity from everyone. In the midst of my misery, Charles stopped by. Said he wanted to know if I needed anything. I confessed that I was very lonely and VERY behind on some reading that I needed to get done for a final.
He picked up a ridiculous purple scarf my roommate used to wear and swooped it around his head. Then he put on his dark rimmed glasses and hiked his pants up to dangerous wedgie lengths. Now in costume, he grabbed the book from my lap and began to read in a ridiculous Shakespearean voice. He sat and read to me for 2 hours while I laughed and laughed and our groups of friends were out on 6th street getting high.
Charles and I had one thing in common. We didn’t do drugs. When we went to parties, I always sat next to him because no one laughed when he said no to a line of coke, a hit off the bong or a tab of LSD. I knew he did drugs once in awhile but it was always on his terms. He didn’t do it for the sake of peer pressure.
Throughout life I wished that I had spent more of my college years experimenting with drugs because doing it in your later years just isn’t as cool or as fun. Charles can now attest to this in spirit.
At 27 years old, Charles died of a heroin overdose. I lost touch with him long before he entered this phase. He will always be that passionate guy who came to my room to cheer me up when no one else would because they were too busy getting high.

So there it is. Charles is dead. I can’t get him out of my head.