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Saying Goodbye It's moments like these that I will treasure, moments that remind me what a fun-loving, energetic person Wes was. Moments which I'm happy I had, yet regretfully will never have again. I'm saying one last haiku for you Wes. Erik |
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I have always believed that people come into and out of your life for myriad reasons. They make entrances and exits, and in doing so, they affect you in some way. I believe that everyone that I have come in contact with has had an impact on me--Not the lady at the checkout or the man at the gas station necessarily, but people you get to know. The song "Napoleon" by Ani De Franco reminds me a lot of Wes. If you are unfamiliar, that's ok. Read on. Wes was an easy person to be in awe of. I had boundless respect for him and admired his talent and personality. I was 16 when I met him. Having the chance to spend the year and a half of high school with him that I did was in some ways a blessing and had a lasting impression on me. How many people do you meet in school and become friends with for the next 12 years of your life? We weren't around each other 24/7 or even connected continually for those 12 years, but most of the people you meet in high school just fall off the face of the earth eventually. That wasn't the case with us. How many people can you remember exactly what their first words to you were, and their last? Wes' first words to me were, "Do I suck my own pole?" I asked him at track practice if the pole he was using for pole vaulting was his own pole, or one that the school provided. That was his insane reply. He liked to do that with girls. He would pretend to misunderstand you to embarrass you, and it was almost always sexual. Not creepy sexual, just funny. One other trait he carried in high school was sporting a Duran Duran hairstyle that was also along the lines of "A Flock of Seagulls" gone awry. It was bleached with red tones, long and very unique. He used about as much hairspray as I did back then, which is frightening since 1) I had mall bangs and 2) I'm a female! He also was a recreational kleptomaniac. Sunglasses were a prized possession to him. He and his friend Rodge would say, "Hey, those are cool sunglasses, can I..." and they would take them right off your face, never to be seen again, except on them. Wes had a drawer full by the time he went away to college. It caught up with him though. Years later I stole an incense holder from his house (the cave) that he had whittled by hand. He noticed it was missing right away. When my conscience kicked in, I confessed and returned it. He loved to whittle wood and he loved incense so keeping something so valuable to him would have been selfish. Now, I wish I had kept it. After all, I never got my sunglasses back. Sunglasses weren't the only things Wes liked to steal. In his wonder years at Malakoff High, girls were somewhat of a sport to Wes. He stole more hearts than Elvis. He liked a girl only until she returned his affection and once that was accomplished, he moved on. Please don't think that I am saying Wes was some big lothario in high school. Nothing, in fact, could be further from the truth. It was more like he wanted the attention and nothing else really. Being so desired was fun but he set limits. Wes didn't have "relations" with anyone until he was out of high school and much older. He didn't live by locker room rules and didn't feel that he had to follow some guy code to be cool. All the girls were in love with him and some the guys wanted to be him. He made me want to go the long way to get to class just to get a chance to walk behind him in the hall so I could look at his butt. He'd slap me for telling people this, but he wore Z. Cavarichi pants and had this white pair that were really torture to look at. They answered the eternal question boxers or briefs without saying a word. I can't tell you how many times girls would talk about those pants. "He's wearing those pants today." Wes had this good boy, bad boy dicotomy. He cursed like a sailor and acted like a class clown but he made straight A's and liked Physics. He was respectful around my parents but he wrote in my yearbook, "you have a cool house and your ass looks really good in sweats" along with some other yearbook nonsense. He was Drum Major but he liked Poison and played in this band called Prosecution that did Guns N' Roses and Poison cover tunes. He also played the piano and loved classical music. He liked to catch people in the act of doing things. He was sneaky and stealth-like when he wanted to be. High school always has one person that really stands out as that great guy or girl. Wes was the guy. If you looked up "well rounded" in the dictionary, that was Wesley Joseph Berggren. He was athletic, he was cute, he was funny, and he was intelligent. Everyone was sick with jealousy, but they liked him too much to show it. The teachers, the kids, we all knew he was special. We all knew he would move far beyond Malakoff, Texas and what it had to offer. Through it all, he was humble, friendly, and acted like a fool in class and still got good grades. He was James Dean and Alex P. Keaton at the same time. He made his own choices and was ever mindful of doing what was still expected of him. There was a maturity about him that just stunned me sometimes. As a teenager, most of us worry about blending in and running in a pack, looking and being like others. He lived like he didn't care what any one else thought about him. "So what if I am perceived as a weirdo, I am being myself. Screw the social norms and regulations. I have to live," he seemed to say. Wes made his own rules. He didn't live in anyone else's zone of development, only answered to himself, and hated to be told what to do. This has pros and cons, like everything else. In adulthood, Wes was on his own, making things up as he went along. Hating to be told what to do could have had something to do with his death. It is my opinion that he never did anything he enjoyed half-ass. It was always full throttle -- 100%. It is unfortunate that this carried over into his use of recreational pharmaceuticals. He would take Rhohipnol and be a total waste. 3 or 4 pills were not even an appetizer. He would brag about taking 5 to 7 pills in the course of an evening. He loved Vicodin, Codeine, and Valium. If you had your wisdom teeth removed, he was your buddy. He was a pill whore. One of my friends (lets just call her "Lolita") had a prescription for Valium and he called her while she was in the shower and kept calling until she picked up. She answered, knowing who it was, and screeched in the phone, I'm in the shower, I'll call you back, and hung up on him. He was relentless. Try telling him to stop or take it easy. It fell on deaf ears. Seeing him like this was strange as we got older, since he didn't even drink when I first met him. He got worse, then got it somewhat in check, then got worse, then had a moment of clarity about his career and what drugs were going to do to it, then, well we all know what happened. I'd hazard a guess that the drug taking started around 19, with pot, of course, and worked it's way through experimentation into other things. One time he called me when I was about 20 or 21 and asked me to come over and hang out. We were sitting in the cave (that's what he called his house) and he said he wanted a new tattoo. According to him, he had taken about 6 pills and I knew that would help the pain of getting a tattoo. I also tried to talk him out of it, but it wasn't my decision to make. I drove him to Deep Ellum and this tattoo artist stenciled something on him and was just about to put the needle down when Wes spotted this spray bottle sitting on the counter. He sort of said, Wait a minute, slid out of the chair and told the guy to change the tattoo to the design on the spray bottle, pointing at it. As I observed, the guy re-did the whole stencil, trace paper process, and was really mad about it. As a result, he did a shoddy job. Therefore, the tattoo on the small of his back looked like the Florida Orange Grower's Association's symbol, all because of a last minute, impulsive decision. Wes bobbed and weaved to turn and look at the tattoo in the mirror, which would have been difficult for even a person in control of all their limps to do. Taking pills and getting a tattoo was kid stuff. In the early part of his 20's there were so many times he'd be too drunk to walk, not to mention drive, he lost his car and could not remember where it was parked on a few occassions after drinking all night in bars, you name it, the boy had his wild times. Didn't we all? With all the bad (drunken foolishness), came lots of good (drunken foolishness). There were times when he could be a total pain in the ass, but even then, you couldn't help but love him. You might want to kick him in the shins for being so high maintenance when intoxicated, but you never did. Besides, he wasn't always a pain in the neck and you were no angel or walk in the park sometimes yourself. That's the beauty of friendship. You take the good with the bad. In the process, you have some amazing times and maybe some stories that you would never tell you mother or your kids about one day. In deciding which stories to tell from my times with Wes, it's hard to find ones that are easy to tell, and ones that I think are appropriate to share. I'll tell the P.G. ones. Being around Wes had a way of bringing out the boy in me. I never had a brother and never got to play with boys much as a little girl. Any opportunity to find my inner tomboy and act like a raving lunatic and be childish was really encouraged by Wes. I wasn't a girlie girl around my friend Wes. I was just me. I saved the stupid make-up for boys I liked and Wes was lucky if I wore deodorant around him or showered on a Sunday. We were all about burps, farts, and curse words. I don't think you can be friends with someone until you have farted around them, audible or not. One year when it snowed in Dallas, we decided to go to this place called Flag Pole Hill at about 11:00 at night to go sledding. Since Dallas is so flat, we had to drive 20 minutes to get to a hill. That didn't matter. We had made a snow man already, thrown hundreds of snow balls, watched t.v. all day, and cabin fever had set in. We had a hankering to slide down a hill on a trash can lid or some other make-shift sled. If you are reading this and you aren't familiar with snow in Dallas, let me give you some background info. It usually snows once or twice a year (if you're lucky) and we only get about 1 inch (if you're lucky). We aren't used to it. When we got out there, we were freezing. We found a couple of cardboard pieces that had been left behind that day and slid maybe 4 or 5 times each. We drove on icy streets to get there, stayed maybe 10 minutes and said o.k., that's it for me. It's the little things like this that remind me of how spontaneous he was and how much he brought out the dork in people, just by being around him. Just throw all logic aside. It's almost the middle of the night, the streets are covered in ice, let's go freeze our hands and feet off and slide down hills like children - sounds good to me! We also loved "the" Blackjack. I say "the" Blackjack, because it is "the" game to play. Forget roulette, forget craps, Blackjack baby! As white trash as it sounds, we would go on gambling excursions in Shreveport. Ol' people, blue hair and blue eyeshadow, frosted pink lipstick and Dairy Queen uniforms in the El Camino outside, Pal Mal cigarette smoke, free drinks, Yee-Haw! Wes always had this system, and unlike me, he could walk away with money most of the time. He'd hog the computer for days on end, practicing his skill so he could be the best and take as much money as possible from the cheezy Isle of Capri Casino. No sir, they weren't taking his money, he was taking theirs. He never drove the 3 hours required to get to the stinking metropolis of Shreveport, Louisiana though. Some one else always had to. He lounged in the back seat like Cleopatra or slept. He really liked Blackjack, but hated to drive. On the way back home, I'd be in the front seat, bitter because I lost, while money bags slept comfortably in the back seat like a baby. I wanted to stop at the rest stop between Dallas and Shreveport and leave him there sometimes. I never did. It would have been funny to drive off while he was in the restroom though, just because it is something I could completely see him doing to one of his friends. We would,of course, go back and get the other person. No one is that mean. One of my favorite memories of Wes and one that made a lasting impression on me was the night we were hanging out with our friend William when it snowed (different night than the flag pole hill night). I drove over to William's house in my little car (hampster chariot, small, yet with expensive car payments and high insurance, you'll see where this is going in a minute) to watch movies and someone had to go get Wes because since he lived down the street on Swiss Avenue, but wasn't driving the Gato (his car) on the ice for obvious reasons. It was old and beautiful and was going to stay that way without any cosmetic alterations from sliding on snowy, icy streets. About halfway through the evening of watching movies, someone nominated me to go to 7-11 to get cookie dough so we could bake cookies. More time had passed and more ice had built up than the earlier trip from my house 3 blocks away. I got about 100 feet down the street and slid into a Volvo. Another car hit me and pushed me under the Volvo. I was stuck. I walked back and told William and Wes that I needed help. Wes borrowed his mom's truck and a jack and came to my rescue. The kid driving the Volvo took one look at him and said, "Hey, aren't you in Tripping Daisy?" Wes and the kid stood there talking and as it turns out, they had met before, and Wes ended the conversation with giving the kid his phone number. It was easy to remember, he told the guy, it's a square on the bottom of the phone, XXX-6985. Why he gave that kid his number made me wonder. He always had people calling him and we had to come up with a secret code for the phone. Since he could be incredibly obstinate and sometimes did things that didn't make sense to anyone but him, he wouldn't change his number. He'd gripe about the phone ringing off the wall, but he gave his number out, still. People were always calling him and he often let call notes take care of it, unless you hung up after the first ring and then called back. That was the code for a while. Maybe it changed, maybe he got caller I.D., I don't really remember. Anyway, he gave the kid his number, my car was removed from the butt of the Volvo and we parked my car and went in Joan's truck to get the cookie dough. I was crying because I was sad about my car being wrecked. The hood had a rip in it like a can opener just took a chunk out of the metal. Wes told me to cheer up. It could have always been worse. And besides, we were still going to have cookies and milk and watch Stand By Me. That was all it took to make it better. Cookies and milk? Was I 5 years old? No, but having someone around like Wes to tell you stuff like that just made it alright sometimes. He didn't like self pity and wouldn't tolerate it. I got the idea from him that not dwelling on what you couldn't control was the best way to live life. I knew that before, but having him around made me remember it a lot more often. I still try to remember it. It's hard in light of what happened to him. [I want to cry right now... O.K, it passed.] I will laugh instead of cry because I did get a few years with him. We did have cookies and milk. We got drunk together and sang and acted silly and young. We ran through the woods. We ate meals, shared secrets, told stories, had birthday parties. I peed in front of him, not by choice, I might add, but because once you start, you must continue, regardless of him walking in the bathroom with you. You know that saying about the true measure of friendship, jail or the hospital? Enough said. To me, it's like he's still here sometimes even though he's really not. You must be creative to include him in your life now, but it can be done. I had him with me the day I got married. I borrowed a cross that belonged to him and stuck it in my dress for my "something borrowed", right inside my corset (in case you didn't know, wedding gowns do not have pockets). He was probably on tour in heaven laughing at me for that. It's hard, but I make an effort to dwell on the good memories, not the sadness and anger that I feel sometimes because he's not alive anymore. I think about his parents. I lost a friend, but they lost something I can't even begin to understand or put into words. I'm just glad they had a son like Wes. Focus on the gifts you've already been given, not the stuff you can't control. That's the impression he left on me.The last time I saw him, he was different. The details are something I don't want to share. In a way, I did say good bye that night. I never got to verbalize it though, so I will do that now. Good bye to a friend who had made my life really fun and carefree and always was like my own private jokester. Good bye to a friend who would leave the world's funniest answering machine messages on my machine with words to look up in the dictionary like "priapism". Good bye to a friend who let me sleep in his bed when I was heart broken over a guy I really liked and couldn't fall asleep in my own. Good bye to a friend I used to ride through Highland Park with on the way to the movies at Inwood with our heads out the windows of the Dodge Dart, screaming at people on the sidewalks and scaring the hell out of them. Good bye to a friend who taught me let the chips fall where they may. Good bye to a friend who was the agony of my twenty seventh year. Good bye to a friend who used to hide in my closet when I was in the shower and jump out laughing his ass off when I was wearing towel. Good bye to a friend who actually looked at me and said, This was the perfect ending to the perfect evening. Good bye to a friend who when he was around, made me forget about life's stupid problems and made me feel like laughing at World War II documentaries when they said tenterhook, or watching The Goonies for the 151st time in our lives and saying, "CHOK" over and over. Good bye to a friend who talked to a dog named Loki and seemed to really be communicating with him. Good bye to a friend who loved cold, rainy days, sunshine and big trees. Good bye, Wes. |
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Every once in a while a milestone takes place in a person’s lifetime; the smells, sounds, sights, and emotions are kept in colorfully wrapped packages that swell up from time to time in the form of memories. Falling in love is a real crucial one. Yeah, all that silly lovely dovey stuff... feels like Christmas time in my tummy , my love is now my wife and the soundtrack to our pre-mating rituals was bill. one night she took me on a date, She went to marooned records in Bryan, Texas and bought 2 tickets to the Tripping Daisy/buddahchest show . Cheri surprised me with the flyer for the show wrapped in a box. I think she said it was our sixth month 3 day 47 seconds anniversary. We got really gussied up in our "stepping-out" best, ate a nice meal then went to the Stafford opera house (I miss that un-air-conditioned place). Wes, Tim, mark and Bryan all hit the stage and played music that makes my wife and I so happy we have to bounce in place. I am in such a state of bliss I get this goofy-ass smile on my face. I'm all euphoric on the sound of Tripping Daisy playing live. I reali ze-right then- I have found my soulmate and she is bouncing up and down with me. That exact moment is like a film in my brain . The stage lighting in the background, the smile on my girls face. Man, this is what life is all about. I start jumping higher and higher and spinning in a enterprative tribal dance. My -white boy with no rhythm - ritualistic gyrations tell my wife and all in my presence, that I am hers and all is right in my universe. This is my heaven, nothing can spoil this moment-ever. Suddenly i ascend from a huge leap and my nose cracks into this guys forehead blood squirts out everywhere, my mates face gives me that motherly look of concern. We smile and start hopping again , nothing could ruin that moment even a broken nose . The band as a whole does not even know the significant role they have in my families life. A piece of something that has always been a positive force in my life is now physically gone. My numbness is quelled when is see the band in my mind playing, they are all very happy. My wife Cheri and I are pregnant now. last week we were in our car "love gets inside of you" was playing. We both sang it to the baby in my wife 's tummy. Wes is gone but he and the band still have a great effect on my life. Thank you, |
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In the early fall of 1985, Wes and his buddies were camping out in East Texas. - written by Wes' family |
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Saying goodbye to a friend is not easy. It causes you to reminisce and it reminds you that those special fleeting moments that somehow left an impact on you will never happen again. At the same time, though, it makes you happy. I feel blessed to have been able to share some of those special moments with Wes. Little things keep popping into my mind; memories which I thought I had forgotten. Little things that will always serve as a reminder of the times I shared with him. One recent memory comes to mind: Haiku Comer. It was last August before a show in Wichita Falls, TX when many of us sat around a comer booth spilling out the silliest haiku's anyone had ever heard. Of course, they weren't real Haiku's as none of us could actually remember the proper amount of syllables in a haiku, but it didn't matter to us. That night, Wes was crowned king of Haiku Comer because he said some of the wittiest and funniest haiku's. Later that night after the show, Wes and I somehow made our way back to Haiku Comer one last time. Only this time, we managed to carry on a meaningful conversation all in haiku's. Sometimes in the middle of a serious conversation we would both laugh hysterically at ourselves for being so silly. But of course, we carried on. 
For the next four hours there were sounds of