Kevin Duane Barrett (1972-1990)

Nobody heard him, the dead man,

But still he lay moaning:

I was much further out than you

 thought

And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking

And now he’s dead

It must have been too cold for him his

heart gave way,

They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always

(Still the dead one lay moaning)

I was much too far out all my life

And not waving but drowning.

 

by Stevie Smith 

I’ll always remember the conversation, or at least the tragic portion of it, although 30+ years later I’m not even sure who it was I was talking to or even what the main subject was. On second thought, I think I know who told me, but there's no point in vilifying her today for her lack of maturity in such delicate matters way back then. She was still in high school if she's who I'm thinking of. Still, the news she provided of Kevin’s death was offered as a tidbit, a side note, another “did you hear?”. I remember the overwhelming numbness, the ice water-in-the-veins effect, and the obligatory disbelief. The added detail that he “shot himself” left me none the wiser, although I never knew him to be the typical deer hunter who’d somehow managed to engage the trigger while cleaning the barrel. It took the customary “Yeah, he blew his brains out” that clarified things for me. What an uncaring, crude, and vulgar phrase, but I suppose it was the most expedient thing to say, especially from someone who didn’t admire him as I did. 

It happened two days after Christmas, the 27th, so my family would have been in Memphis as was usual during the holidays. We probably didn’t return home until a day or two after the New Year. By the time I got the news, whatever funeral there may have been would have already come to pass. And I had been so caught up in my first few years of college and chasing friendships that never amounted to anything that I had lost touch with Kevin. I knew where he lived, and I could have dialed his number with minimal effort, but for whatever reason the very one who I should have pursued to the end of days was an afterthought at the time. Such is youth. My closest friends from that time mean absolutely nothing to me now. At the very most they are “Facebook friends” with whom I never interact. If only I knew then . . . . 

I first met Kevin in the fall of 1986. I was a junior at Walker High School and he was an incoming freshman. He was one of the four new “Boldo Boys” as I referred to them then – probably it was the alliteration. I speak of places with familiarity that others outside of Walker County wouldn't understand. Boldo, for the uninitiated, is an unincorporated community outside of Jasper. If there's a “center of town” so to speak, it's where Arkadelphia Road crosses Hwy. 69 and becomes Boldo Road. But I digress . . . probably adult onset ADD . . . the Boldo Boys: Brandon, Gary, Kevin, and Randall. They all stuck together as newly-arrived freshmen are apt to do, and it's in that context that I met the lot of them. Gary and Randall were more of what we'd call the country boy types. I'm sure the beginning of deer season is still a holiday in their homes to this very day. If ever an engine needed rebuilt, they'd be the first ones you'd think of. They were both good as gold. Kevin and Brandon, on the other hand, were as citified as one could expect from the pre-internet era in Boldo. They also shared my uncommon interest in what would've been considered “underground” or alternative music at the time, although neither were as caught up in the aesthetics as I was . . . but still SPLENDID!

None of the Boldo Boys were as loud,  rebellious, bold, brash, and boisterous (alliteration again) as I was. So by my standards as they were then, I considered all of them to be somewhat shy. If it were genuine shyness, then Kevin was by far the most shy. A mystery! Awesome! A notable quest indeed for this Byronic hero. I can't honestly recite the exact number, but I swear I had quite a few of the customary phone conversations with him and from what I can remember, the subject never strayed far from the familiar. Still,those phone calls mattered. He mattered. He still does. Kevin will always matter.

To describe Kevin in more physical detail: he was rather plain overall– a bit taller than others, lanky, a typical runner's physique. His hair was jet black but he kept it buzzed short and never grew out a long, gothic bang to swoop over his forehead. Pity that. I also remember him having perfect skin, although never achieving the golden tan that the other “Boldo Boys” possessed. Rather, I envied the fact that he never once had a nasty zit like practically every high school student has to endure. His skin never seemed to tan, nor burn even, and that pallid tone of clotted cream would have made him the envy of every vamp at The Sanctuary in Birmingham, although he never once went with me. Pity that. He had those delicate hands with long, bony fingers that are suited perfectly for the fretboard of a guitar although I don’t recall him ever playing any instrument. I could be wrong though. His face, at least to me, could almost be described as angelic: high cheekbones, lots of sharp angles, somewhat sullen cheeks, and a bit of a weak chin that gave the appearance of a slight overbite. As I said before, plain overall but “plain” given the standards of male beauty as they were then. He was never going to be mistaken for one of the Backstreet Boys (thank God), but if we could take 1990 Kevin into the here and now, he’d positively be revered as godlike. Such is the difference 30 years makes. Back then, neither Timothee Chalamet nor Finn Wolfhard would likely have “fluttered pulses” outside of the goth crowd, of course, but today they are the quintessential modern aesthetic. Kevin fulfills practically every aspect of that exact standard almost completely.

By 1992 I was living in this festering shithole known as Memphis. I still do to this day. I was in college part time at the University of Memphis, working full time, and pursuing my newly-acquired hobby of high-end audio. It was on one particular night during one of my “critical listening sessions” that all of my memories of Kevin came rushing into view. I was sitting alone (of course), in the dark (of course), and in my black leather listening chair directly between my recently acquired Spica Angelus speakers (we audiophiles call this the sweet spot). Lou Reed's Magic and Loss album had been recently released and I had settled down for a full listen from start to finish. It became increasingly clear to me that this composition was similar thematically to his most recent effort, the 1990 duet with former Velvet Underground bandmate John Cale, Songs for Drella. Like the former, it too was rather slow tempo and I may have nodded off a bit in deep meditation, but I clearly recall the jolt I received when the tempo finally picked up pace. About halfway through the album, and exactly during the fourth verse of the song “No Chance,” Kevin's memory appeared with pulsing poignancy in my mind's eye: 

There are things we say we wish we knew

And in fact we never do

But I wish I’d known you were going to die

Then I wouldn’t feel so stupid, such a fool that I didn’t call

And I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye

No, I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye

It didn't matter that the subject of Reed's song died from cancer. This song spoke to me. To me! “If only if only if only” . . . another line from a much older Lou Reed song. If only. I mean, could I have made any difference whatsoever? If only I had picked Kevin as my protégé instead of the many undeserving others who sought my friendship solely to be on the inside of things. Kevin would surely have been different of course. I'd have had to pursue him and convince him that I was worthy, not the other way around. If doing so would mean he'd still be with us, I'd have swam the Hellespont nightly like Leander--a noteworthy quest for the Byronic hero. Actually, unraveling the mystery that was Kevin reminds me more of Robert Browning's “Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came.” Hopefully his journey through life wasn't as horrific as that of the poem's hero. I can't imagine. 

If only. 

If only I had made it my goal to be called the best friend he'd ever met. But I liked too much being the center of things! Maybe that was it? I don't remember. I was always told that I'm exceedingly arrogant. He'd have been a worthwhile project to say the least. Had I known . . . if only . . . I'd have pulled him to my hip and would have kept a vigilant eye on him, but none of us ever know I guess. There are no second chances. 

One recurring dream that occasionally visits me to this day is the phone call I received where I learned of Kevin's death. I almost always wake up in a panic and typically can't get back to sleep. Such is anxiety. Since I've already established a bit of an inspirational reliance on Lou Reed in this blog:

Waves of fear attack in the night

Waves of revulsion, sickening sights

My heart's nearly bursting, my chest's choking tight

Waves of fear, waves of fear.

My anxiety is fleeting, so I don’t want to imagine what Kevin must have had to deal with. It's been decades now but I'm still sitting shiva, although the mirrors have long since been uncovered.

Recalling that phone call where I got the news about Kevin, I definitely remember why being the question that dwelt with me the most. Obviously no one knows why. No suicide note was left as far I know. Maybe he did. Who knows, but if he did it wasn't made public. Even at the age of twenty,I had already lost a couple of friends/classmates/acquaintances to Walker County's treacherous back roads and another to the all-too-common drowning at Smith Lake, but none had ever willingly taken their own life. This was a bit too much to wrap my mind around, especially in my youth.

 “Well, you know how his parents are,” my informant told me, “they probably pushed him over the edge.” And that was a logical reply as his parents were more than a bit overbearing from all I could remember. Kevin was an only child and I do, in fact, remember others commenting about how overbearing his parents were to him. Perhaps the word strict was the term of choice, but at any rate I well remember him being perpetually concerned about making the best grades in school. Research into Kevin's parents reveals that they both died in 2001, first his father and then his mother two months later. I can find no obituary for either. I can't even pay them a visit in retrospect to dig up old memories. 

But why would I be so bold to do such a thing--to message them out of the blue or, worse, show up at their door one day? I don't know really, but I always look for the cause of the effect. Kevin’s parents, known clinically as the agents, are callously dismissed as the cause. The effect . . . well, we already know. Most of us are guilty of looking for the cause of the matter, the trigger so to speak, when even a basic introduction to psychology reveals depression as a primary cause. “Yes, but what causes the depression?” most of us think. Who or what is the agent, in other words? Did Kevin's parents drive him to this? Did they expect perfection in his academics? Was he struggling with a failed romance? To address 21st-century “causes,” I feel it safe to say he wasn't bullied, or questioning his gender, or confused about his sexuality. 

I'm writing this not as a call to arms so to speak. We living in 2024 are shamed and badgered incessantly. Enough of that! If Kevin were indeed LGBTQ+E=mc2-abracadabra ad nauseum, or pining for a lost love, no one today would "bully" him, so if those were the demons that tormented him he'd have endless support today. I'm writing more than anything to remember Kevin and validate his importance. The Walker High School Class of 1990 is surely missing one of their own. Kevin will always matter. He was here once and he was indeed loved and cherished.

                                    I see above where Kevin's class portrait reveals that he did, in fact, grow his hair out a bit. He even has a bit

                                                    of a bang that I could have coaxed into a real Goth boy "devil's lock." But I digress . . . .