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Making Sense of a Friend’s Suicide
My friend Conrad called me with the news. Kevin had followed through on his threat. He woke early on a Sunday, delivered his mastiff Holly to his ex-wife’s house, drove to the Los Angeles VA cemetery, parked his car beside the Civil War monument, placed a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. He was 68.
The news was shocking, but then again it wasn’t. Kevin hinted about his plans for years. He had a grievance with the Veterans Administration. He was convinced his exposure to Agent Orange in Vietnam caused early onset Parkinson’s disease. He felt the VA wasn’t providing proper healthcare or disability. The last time I saw him, he went on a long rant about the VA and how they didn’t care about veterans. “They keep telling me to prove it,” he yelled. “I’ll prove it, you pricks. Just wait.”
He vacillated between rage and despondency. There was no sign of the familiar playfulness or quick-witted humor. The Kevin I remembered was a dynamo. He raced his Indian motorcycle on Mulholland Drive. He flew Cessnas over the Pacific. He played sensitive guitar ballads and wrote short stories about his childhood in Ohio. He created his own comic strip about a kleptomaniac cat. He waxed poetic about Glenfiddich scotch and blended his own whiskey. He worked as a plumber, bartender, chauffeur, private eye, short order cook, car salesman and film projectionist. At the age of…
