Volpane In Love

A personal blog with irregular updates.

Friday, May 31, 2002

I survived my second week of work. I have to admit I was more relaxed this week than I think I've ever been in a corporate office. It helps that my co-worker, Casstina, knows how to tickle my funny bone and make my world wackier than it would be without her.

It's been funny, really, that I haven't been talking about Eric Pollard over the past years as much as I've been talking about him just this past week. He was someone I've always admired for his lust for life. He was smart, intelligent, funny, but he was also wicked, stupid and angry. Not such a contradiction if you ever met him. He was a man of extremes and as complex as that suggests, a man of strong opinions and even stronger moods. He could seem as sane as apple pie or crazy as a loon, depending on what he was doing.

I remember him bragging about interviewing Jeffrey Dahmer as a part of his studies for a degree in psychology. I suppose this may have warned me off of Eric, but it only managed to deepen my belief that he understood limitations around unreasonable behavior, so was safe. Soon I was to learn that this was a relative quality in his life.

For the most part, Eric showed considerable restraint and wisdom. His weakness was demon drink. He liked to drink red wine while he wrote. He was editing a herbal for a friend when I met him. I don't know if it ever was published. Several evenings I'd come home to our little efficiency apartment to find that he'd been cooking up a storm, drinking his red wine and editing. One time I'd asked him to record a program on the television for me because I was working late.

He had recorded it but also watched it and determined that the program was not to his liking. As soon as I arrived home I began watching it, and he began complaining loudly regarding its content. I agreed to watch it at some other time. But he wouldn't leave the subject be. Every half hour he seemed to bring it up again. I tolerated this behavior until much later in the evening, once we'd already gone to bed. In the middle of the night he woke me with a complaint about it. For me, this was the final straw. Nothing is so important that my sleep must be interrupted. I jumped out of bed, tore the VHS tape from the machine and began jumping up and down on it.

I believe I surprised him with my outburst because he immediately retired to the restroom for several minutes. When he returned to bed, he stated rather gravely that he thought it was time for me to leave. I agreed with him and immediately started gathering up my things. "You don't have to leave this minute," he pleaded. I stated I didn't have to, but I wanted to leave.

I called my friend Baxter and asked if he had room on his floor for me to sleep. He'd been out drinking with friends who were visiting over the holiday's and said, "sure, the more's the merrier." So, that's how Eric and I connected or disconnected, as the case may be.

We remained friends after that. He ran into my dad at social gatherings and expressed some understanding regarding things I'd expressed to him before, but that he'd not understood at that time. I think I always loved him for that. Eric could understand things about emotions and familial relations. He wasn't numb, but he let his anger blind him from time to time. Still, his own machinations eventually tamed him. I'm not surprised he died in a foreign country. He always said that once his exile to Seattle was up, he was leaving the country. I don't know how he died, but I wonder if it wasn't by his own hand. I may never know.


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