Well, now that I'm done with my thesis and am back from a lovely Disney vacation, I've got some time to post again. So, for anyone following 'In the Light,' I hope to post the next chapter of that quite soon.
A/N: The style of this story is meant to be a little meandering, repetitive, and bumpy. It's not a sleek, smooth ride by any means and will occasionally switch tense and point of view.
Warnings: original character death, suicidal thoughts, some language.
How are the mighty fallen in the midst of the battle! O Jonathan, thou wast slain in thine high places. I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan: very pleasant hast thou been unto me: thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women. How are the mighty fallen, and the weapons of war perished!
-2 Samuel 1:25-27 (KJV)
It could've been me. I suppose every fireman thinks that when we lose one of our own. It could've been me, on another day, in another place, under different circumstances. It could've been me, caught in the backdraft, going through the floor, trapped by a collapse or explosion. It could've been me, mourned by my brothers, mourned by my family, ever so briefly mourned by the media and society until something else takes their attention. We all think it every time one of our brothers is lost. It very easily could have been me.
Except today, it really could've been me. 126's captain was going to have Marco and I go up on the roof to ventilate, but I ate a little too much smoke and got some ash in my eyes and went out of commission. Rather than send Marco up with Roy (who might be needed at any minute), he kept them on the line and sent another team up instead, though I didn't know who. I couldn't exactly see. John led me over to the engine and sat with me on the running board by Mike, rinsing out my eyes and putting me on oxygen. It couldn't rid me of the taste and grit of the smoke or get the gunk out of my lungs, but at least I could see again. I felt a little better.
I asked Mike if he knew who went up on the roof, and he did. He knows everything. It's incredible. He said one of the men up there was Dave Kobayashi. Dave was my best friend. We met during Army training and went to Vietnam together. We served together. We shipped home together. We joined the fire department together. We've never served together in the same station, though… which might be for the best. I don't know if one station could have handled us together.
I scanned the roof and pointed out Dave to John and Mike. He was easy for me to find. I would know him anywhere. Dave was my best friend. We were going camping and fishing this weekend because we both had four days. I told John and Mike a little more about him, and I didn't care about the stupid smile on my face. Dave was my best friend, my battle buddy. The sun was just coming up, bathing everything in a hazy orange glow behind the smoke. John made me drink some water. We watched the men on the roof. I watched Dave.
It was over in seconds. Dave was on the roof. Dave went through the roof. A fireball shot up through the hole where Dave had been standing. It took me a moment to process what happened, like my brain simply couldn't believe what it just saw and needed to restart. The whole world slowed down around me, and it all took place in the second it took for Dave to disappear through the roof. The fireball blew up through the roof where Dave had been standing and I screamed. I still don't know how I managed to make a sound like that- well, I sort of do. I just watched my best friend d- no. Dave was not dead. He couldn't be. I tore the oxygen mask off my face and started toward the structure.
Mike and John grabbed me and held me back and I couldn't understand why because Dave was in there, was alive still, and someone only needed to go to him. I hated them. I screamed. I fought. I struggled. I swore. Why wouldn't they let me go? Dave needed to be rescued and now. I fought them until I couldn't breathe anymore, until my smoke-injured lungs and throat couldn't take any more abuse. They were taking too long. I could hear Dave's captain at 86s yelling hoarsely on the radio, pleading for an update. I hoped Roy went in for him. No offense to John, but Roy was the best. If anyone could rescue Dave, it was Roy. John forced me to sit down again, putting me back on oxygen and telling me everything would be alright, that it would be fine. He's a fucking liar.
I was taken to Rampart for treatment, and it's here they bring me the news. John rode in with me, and I guess one of the doctors tells him. David Daichi Kobayashi was declared dead at 0649 on 11 August 1972. It's five days after his 27th birthday. We were supposed to go camping and fishing this weekend. John tells me Dave broke his neck when he fell. John's voice is gentle as he explains Dave died quickly and painlessly. I want to cry but I can't. I can't believe it. I don't want to believe it. I think John leaves with Roy and comes back later with Mike. They're both in civvies and have brought me a change of clothes. I wonder what time it is but don't have the energy to look. All it will tell me is how long Dave has been dead. John asks me about my lungs and throat and eyes, and I answer him dutifully. They are the only words I speak.
They keep me in Rampart until about sundown, when John and Mike take me to John's apartment. I think they don't trust me to be alone. They think I'll hurt myself or someone else, and they might be right. There's a full bottle of Wild Turkey and some high-quality painkillers in my apartment. I could absolutely hurt myself. I could easily hurt myself… and by doing so I would hurt others. John buys a pizza on the way home. He and Mike must be hungry. I'm not. I'm not anything anymore. I sit in John's recliner and curl up in the smallest ball I can. Someone puts a blanket over me at some point. Maybe it's Mike. He's stretched out on the couch, his feet hanging off the edge. I'm so glad I don't dream.
When I first wake up, it feels like any other day. I look around at my surroundings. It hits me like a fucking truck. Yesterday, 11 August 1972, at about 0620, David Daichi Kobayashi died, just five days after his 27th birthday. There's an all-consuming emptiness inside me, a ragged and bleeding wound hemorrhaging away in my soul, and it just fucking hurts. Mike makes breakfast. I don't eat. Outside, it looks bright and hot. Dave and I were supposed to go camping and fishing this weekend.
I'm asked to be a pallbearer. It's an honor. It's the last thing I can do for Dave, to carry him to his final resting place. I'm asked to be the one to give his mother the flag that will drape his coffin. It's an honor. It's the one thing I can do for his mother, who saw her only son survive deployment to Vietnam only to die on American soil. I'm asked to speak at his service. It's an honor. It's the only way I can even begin to make people understand what Dave Kobayashi meant to me, what he still means to me.
I don't know how I'll do it. Dave and I met in 1963 at Fort Belvoir in Virginia for training. We were then sent to Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, then to Fort Bragg, North Carolina, then to Vietnam in '66. We helped build the Cam Ranh Bay airfield. We went to Pleiku under the 18th Engineers. We were discharged in '68 and sent home to LA. When I told Dave I wanted to join the fire department, he decided to join with me. Kelly and Kobayashi. We were damn near inseparable.
I don't know how to tell everyone in a few short words what this man has meant to me. We didn't even know each other for ten years, but I feel like my whole life has ended. We knew everything about each other, sharing our secrets in the dead of night in the jungles of a foreign country during a war we didn't really understand. We would hold each other in dire moments, hold each other when we were sure we were going to die, hold each other and laugh shakily when we survived. He was like another piece of me, part of my own soul. We were closer than friends, closer than brothers. I don't know how to explain he was my soulmate-in-arms, that I'm sure we were born to be friends, that it was fate we become friends.
I don't know how to explain how much I'll miss his booming, barking laugh, his eyes that sparkled like topaz when were plotting mischief or when he laughed, the way his voice was just deep enough to throw people off for a second because how was that voice coming out of a skinny Japanese guy. People will remember his bravery, his confidence, his service, his pranks. Will they remember anything else, though? Will they remember his ugly 18th Engineers tattoo? Will they remember the first time we went hunting and he was so excited to bag a goose? Will they remember his first trout, his first pheasant, his first buck? Will they remember that he didn't take shit off anyone for even a second but was the kindest, sweetest man if you earned his trust? I will. I'll remember every goddamn thing.
I'll remember his favorite foods and his favorite jokes and his favorite places to hunt and fish and the places he liked to eat. I'll remember the time we almost started a riot at Leonard Wood because someone called him a 'fuckin' gook' and called me a fag for defending him. I'll remember the time he convinced a guy he didn't speak or understand English but understood me fine and that I was his translator. I'll remember how broken up he was when his dad died in a car accident while we were in the Academy. I'll remember the way he held me when my mother died just last year, how he was kind and gentle and sweet. I'll remember how I knew him as well as I knew myself, how I loved him as if he were part of me, how much I loved the man tough enough to fight three guys at once and soft enough to adopt a little stray calico kitten.
I tell Mike most of that, but I start crying when I think of little Momo. She adored Dave and followed him everywhere when he came home. What's going to happen to her? I've gone four days without crying. I didn't cry when Dave fell or when John officially told me Dave was dead or when I woke broken and empty every morning or during the run-through of funeral detail this morning. I don't shed a single tear until I think of that little cat who doesn't understand why her human isn't coming home, why she has to live somewhere else with humans who are very nice but aren't hers.
That's when it really hits me, I think. I'm thankful for Mike's presence through everything. Mike Stoker is a good man. There's no other way to describe him. He's just good: a good man, a good engineer, a good friend. Truthfully, I don't why he's felt so responsible for me these last few days. I'm not as close to him as I am to Marco or John, yet he's been at my side almost every minute since Dave died. I don't know why. I don't care, either, because he's got me wrapped up in his arms as I heave and sob. Maybe he knows what I've lost. Maybe he doesn't. I hope he doesn't. I don't want to think of him hurting like this.
I wish the funeral would go by in a blur, but it doesn't. No, the day lingers on every awful moment. My voice shakes when I talk about my friend at the service. Friend. The word doesn't begin to describe what we were, but a simple, minute-long eulogy is not enough time to explain it. I mention Vietnam. I mention our jokes and pranks. I mention Momo and his family and things other firemen and soldiers won't because yes he was brave and strong and tough but he was also good and kind and gentle.
No casket could ever feel this heavy again. Even with his shiftmates and captain there, it feels like I'm carrying it alone. I'm sure they feel the same way. Dave was their brother. It was their duty to keep him safe, unhurt, alive… and they failed. That's not to say I blame them. It's not their fault, but I can only imagine they blame themselves as much as I blame myself. The casket is so heavy. The sun is hot and bright. There is sweat rolling down my spine and my chest and my face. I try to pretend I'm not hurting, pretend I'm not broken, pretend my world hasn't just ended. I don't think it's working.
At the cemetery, there are more hollow words of comfort. Remember his bravery. Remember his strength. Remember his sacrifice. Remember he died doing what he loved. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust. There is a time for everything under the sun. Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends. I can't stand it. I help the others fold the flag, and they give it to me to present to Mrs. Kobayashi. Poor woman. She's buried her husband and now her only son. I see Dave's sisters, Margaret and Eleanor and Judith, all sad and tearful. I give the flag to Mrs. Kobayashi. She bows her head in thanks, accepting the flag with both hands. I almost cry right there. She's so calm and serene and stoic. She doesn't deserve this.
My shiftmates are there for me after the burial, waiting for me by Cap's big sedan. We all fit (barely), and I ride in the back pressed between Mike and Marco. Marco holds my hand, his rough brown palm pressed against mine. It's warm and comforting and I'm not at all ashamed to just lean into him. I bet he misses me. He's probably my best friend now. We mill around the funeral reception for a little while, enough time for me to see Mrs. Kobayashi and her daughters, to grieve with them. Poor Judy looks heartbroken over losing her big brother. Judy Junko was always the opposite of her sisters: loud and outspoken and a little wild. Not now. Now she's quiet as a mouse, withdrawn and stoic as her mother. It makes me sad. I ask Mike to take me home. I can't stand it here any longer. I really can't.
We strip out of our stuffy dress uniforms. My dress shirt is drenched with sweat and I know I'm disgusting but I can't find the will to make myself shower. My world has ended and no one seems to notice. No one except Mike. Well, to be fair to everyone else, I've really only been around Mike this whole time. He's a good man, a good friend. He answers all my questions at the station about being an engineer, lets me watch him work, tells me what he's doing as he does it. He knows I'm smart even though I can't always make my mouth say the right thing. He's patient with me always. He's patient with me now. He wraps me up in his arms and pulls me close. I am weeping brokenly. I am broken.
Why? Why Dave? It doesn't make any sense. It's not fair. God, I wish it were me. I wish I were dead in his place. I wish I were dead, period. I must say it out loud because Mike tells me not to say that, that he does not wish me dead. He's a good man. I buried another good man today, the very best. I buried my best friend. I buried my brother. I buried a piece of my soul. Dave was part of my soul. He was my soulmate, of that I am sure. Something in me felt whole when I met Dave Kobayashi. I can't explain it any other way. Our love for each other wasn't romantic or sexual but it was real.
I loved Dave more than anyone, more than anything. I wish I could walk into the afterlife and bring him back. I will never love anyone the way I loved him… the way I still love him. I love my shiftmates, love Marco and John and Mike, and I feel shame at thinking I would rather see one of them dead than Dave. I know I don't mean it, that my brain dredged up such awful thoughts in my grief, but it only makes me cry harder. I don't want anyone dead, especially not my shiftmates. Mike shivers and pulls me closer. I feel his fingers against my scalp and his hand on my back. He rocks gently, swaying back and forth. He doesn't speak much but when he does, I feel his voice rumbling in his chest. He's a good man.
David Kobayashi died on Friday, 11 August 1972, just five days after his 27th birthday. We were supposed to have been camping and fishing this past weekend. Instead, he fell through a roof and died. Instead, I buried him in the cold ground. I wish I could remember the last thing I said to him. He was so much better than me and fuck I wish I were dead. I wish I couldn't feel anything, not a damn thing, Dave. Did it hurt? Did you suffer? Did you know it was coming? Did you feel the roof give way, see the shingles falling, feel the heat of the fireball? Goddamn, I wish I couldn't feel anything. I've got a full bottle of Wild Turkey and some high-grade painkillers. I could make my wish come true. I could easily be dead tonight and we could be together again.
I miss you, Dave. I miss you more than anything. I want you back. I would trade my life for yours in an instant. I wish I could. I wish it more than anything. There's a raw, aching, hemorrhaging wound inside me, where a piece of my soul with your name on it used to be, Dave. The emptiness is so all-consuming, I'm sure it will never end. I will never be happy again. I'm sure of it. I miss you so fucking much I want to die. I could die easily. I've got a full bottle of Wild Turkey and some high-grade painkillers. It would be like falling asleep. You wouldn't like that, though, I think. I tell Mike about the whiskey and the pills. He takes them. We dump the whiskey down the sink. He puts the pills in his pocket. He's a good man. You met him once or twice when you subbed at our station. You liked him.
I have a nightmare my first night back at work. I see you die again and again and again. When I wake up, Marco's holding me and telling me it'll all be okay, that I'm okay, that he's got me. Cap said I screamed like I was dying, and it scared him half to death. John coaxes me into letting him check me over to make sure I'm not hurt and that I'm okay. They stay up with me for the rest of the night. Mike and John and Marco take turns staying with me or having me stay with them. They sit up with me after a nightmare, hold me when something sets me off, get me to eat and sleep and shower and do laundry. They convince me to keep working, to get up and just keep living every day. I take some time at 86s, your old station, and they give me one of your old helmets. I take it home and keep it in my apartment.
Today, it's a year since you died, Dave. It's Saturday, 11 August 1973. It's five days after what would've been your 28th birthday. I suppose we would've gone camping and fishing. I suppose we would've gone deer hunting that winter. We might've gone on a few dates. You might've met the love of your life. I haven't gone on a date since you died. I went camping with John and Marco once. Marco's been a good friend. He told me how he saw his older brother get shot and die, so he knows how I feel. He knows what it feels like to be that kind of helpless. He told me he thought about killing himself, too, that he got as far as having the gun barrel in his mouth; he was sixteen. Today is Saturday, 11 August 1973. Dave died on Friday, 11 August 1972. It's been one whole year.
I'm still sad, but I'm not sad all the time. I still hurt, but I don't hurt all the time. I still have an occasional nightmare. I'm still struck by the odd memory that sets me off. But not always.
I always miss you, though, Dave. Always. Sometimes it's stronger and sometimes barely noticeable, but I always miss you. There's still something missing inside me, something broken and aching and barely held together. The pain is chronic, and like any other chronic pain some days are better than others, and some days are much, much worse.
I miss you so much, Dave. I miss you more than anything. Sometimes, I miss you so much that I wish I were dead, that I wish I couldn't feel anything, not a damn thing. Mostly, I just miss you, like a dull ache throbbing inside me, a dull ache I can't get rid of but can handle and ignore most days. It's better now, much better than it was. I only cry a little when I set the flowers on your grave. The stone reads, 'David Daichi Kobayashi / 6 August 1945-11August 1972 / Beloved Son, Brother, and Friend / Served His Country and His City.'
I miss him as deeply as I loved him. I miss him more than anything. I only cry a little when I set the flowers on his grave.