Sixteen years ago, my friend Garth Hoblitzell passed away on September 26th from an overdose. Our lives intersected ever so briefly, but he left such an indelible mark on my heart. So many people from that period in my life made me laugh uncontrollably, and he was at the top of that list.
Garth came into my life right after a relationship implosion. John and I were together for several years, and I had convinced myself that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. But we’re full of terrible ideas in our mid-twenties. John and I were just two insecure people holding on to each other for dear life, and in the end, we went down swinging. The aftermath of our breakup was a long sprawl. Fighting to stay together is still fighting, and it took its toll.
After our relationship finally ended, I realized I hadn’t ever casually dated. I had no idea what it was all about and decided I wanted to find out. In those two or three years of being single, Garth became my wingman, and like a good friend, he helped me to move on from the doldrums that follow a breakup. He and I worked together in a restaurant in downtown Seattle, and after our shift, we would walk up Capitol Hill to people-watch and drink bottles of wine. We were an odd pair, but I just loved him to pieces.
Back then, I was a ridiculous flirt, and Garth used to endure watching me work a room and then chide me for my terrible taste in men. He was a swift judge of character, and his blunt assessments of people were often hilarious (and generally right). “That guy is a tool,” he’d tell me. “A complete reject” and “He’s not into you at all.” When I made overtures toward someone he thought was especially beneath me, he would say, “Really?” I would laugh and then carry on.
There were a lot of tools back then.
Garth and I used to pass books between each other and debate their merits. We were both utterly arrogant about our knowledge of the world. We actually knew nothing like most twenty-somethings, but boy we sure thought we did. He and I had the same sensibilities in life and the same dark sense of humor. We would cut each other down, feel bad about it, and then reveal our sweet side to make up for it. I think we were both sensitive romantics who quietly believed in the goodness of people. Both of us were uncomfortable with vulnerability, which I’ve moved past since then.
When I think back to that period in my life, I rarely think about the men I dated. I think about sitting in a bar with Garth and the handful of other friends I had during that time (some of whom I am still friends with). We played dominoes, smoked cigarettes, and passed the time as if we had endless stretches of road in front of us. There was a promise to it all.
From time to time, Garth will still show up in a dream. It’s always so lovely. In 2011, he appeared in one so vivid that I woke up from it crying from grief. In the dream, we talked about his two kid brothers and how much he loved them. He always had such reverence for them and often used to tell me that they were the smart ones in the family (which was hard to believe since Garth was so smart).
Later that day, I felt compelled to find Garth’s brother, Travis, on Facebook and sent him a note about the dream and my memories of Garth. I didn’t know him, and I didn’t receive a response. For years I felt guilty about subjecting my moment of grief and loss onto him. It felt like such a selfish compulsion.
Five years later, I got a notification from Facebook messenger. It was a short note from Travis, who had just received the message. He never received it back in 2011 because it sat in Facebook messenger’s “other” folder – where notes from people you aren’t connected with go – for a half a decade. It was lost in the ether for all those years.
“Thank you so much for sharing this message with me,” Travis wrote back. “It really means a lot. I miss my brother dearly.”
A few days later, Garth’s mother also wrote to me, ending her note with, “I believe dreams are visits.”
So do I sometimes. It’s such a good way to think of it.
