The Ballad Of The Black Revenger

Titus Tsimonjela, the best friend I could ever have, and a better friend than I ever deserved, is dead.

Seemingly yesterday, the man was here, alive and well, and now he's gone, just gone.

We met in summer school, a pair of slackers and delinquents who just wanted to spend our free time reading comic books, playing scary video games in broad daylight, and smoking weed while zoning out in front of the TV late at night. We never grew apart, and we never took our friendship for granted.

Over the years, just about every person I dared to call "friend" has drifted away, seemingly waking up one morning and realizing that my companionship was no longer needed in their lives. Some of these people would make a token attempt to reconnect via social media later in life, because let's face it: being Facebook friends isn't like being real friends. You don't need to make any real effort to care on Twitter.

You can "like" your pal Demetrius's charming post about the dog with the broken asshole who learned to shit on his own again with the help of the kindly veterinarian who lived down the street from your uncle's taxidermist, and you can retweet your BFF Linda's delightfully racist opinions on the fascist, Muslim, illegal alien (literally, the guy's a reptilian dictator from the distant planet Zanthar VII) currently squatting in the White House, because there's no commitment involved. It's just one little click, and it makes you feel like you've accomplished something, even though you've really accomplished absolutely nothing.

That's not friendship; it's just another way to delude yourself into thinking you're actually interacting with another human being without having to actually make the effort and truly interact. Real relationships are messy, sometimes awkward, occasionally volatile, and they require the odd physical interaction to survive.

I know I'm not an easy person to like. I am naturally suspicious of every human being I encounter and assume that any pleasant expressions directed at me are at best merely an attempt on the other person's part to uphold societal norms via socially accepted conduct, or at worst the willfully deceitful actions of an individual who wishes to manipulate me for their own nefarious ends. I simply don't like most people, and I've been that way for as long as I can remember. Trust me when I say that I understand why I don't have many close friends. But when I do manage to make a meaningful connection with another person, I try very, very hard to overcome my own shortcomings to be the best friend I can be. I often fail, but I always try.

I suppose it's my own fault. Nearly every friend I've ever had has given up on me for whatever reason. One day, they'd just stop calling me. They'd stop responding to my emails. They'd stop coming over on the weekends. They all decided they had better things to do. Every time this occurred, I was left alone with all of these questions echoing in my mind. What did I do wrong? Did they ever really like me to begin with? Did I never matter to them? Why am I never good enough?

Depression would settle in, and eventually that would give way to cynicism and a strong suspicion of my fellow man. Everybody else found something better to do with all of their real friends and had no time to waste on that fat, weird asshole anymore. But Titus stuck around. For over half my life, he was there for me, when nobody else could be bothered.

Driving aimlessly around town in a borrowed car at midday, singing along to every track of Kylie Minogue's Light Years album because we knew them all by heart, simply because it seemed like a good idea at the time. Endless hours spent joyfully humiliating each other playing Super Smash Bros. Melee to the tunes of Queens Of The Stone Age and Wu-Tang Clan. All of those late nights drinking terrible coffee and smoking far too many cigarettes at a small booth in the back of the old neighborhood diner, just shooting the breeze.

Walking out of the movie theater after having watched House Of 1,000 Corpses for the fifth time, theorizing where the events of The Wind Waker fall in our own unofficial The Legend Of Zelda timeline. Introducing him to the glorious filmographies of David Lynch and David Cronenberg. Arguing over whether or not "James Bond" is just a codename given to a series of 00 agents by MI6. Being there for each other when things get difficult. Lending a sympathetic ear and a shoulder to cry on when necessary.

One day I looked around and realized that I only really had one friend left, but that realization didn't upset me in the slightest. Because that friend was Titus, and he was the only friend I really needed. Not just a friend. No, that word isn't big enough for him. Titus was my brother.

We came from two different families, with different backgrounds and socio-economic status, and to many people we may have seemed incompatible at an outward glance, but we understood each other. We never judged, and we never made any attempts to change ourselves for the other's benefit. We just accepted each other for what we were. Titus only ever wanted to be my friend. I still wonder why.

Why would he work so hard to stay friends with a misanthropic prick like me? Why did I matter so much to him? Now he's gone. My friend is gone. My brother is dead. I'm never going to see him again. No more time spent bullshitting in the basement. No more arguments over pop culture ephemera. No more cracking jokes at goofy old exploitation movies. No more long nights sharing a bottle of cheap whiskey and wondering which one of us will die first. No more pondering what the future has in store for us. No more good times. No more bad times. No more time.

He's left me alone. Not by choice. But he's gone, nonetheless. I'm not ready to say goodbye. I don't think I'll ever be ready. I told him that I loved him in the hospital, but he couldn't hear me. I asked him to open his eyes, because there were still people in the world who wanted him to stick around a while longer, but he couldn't see me. I know he didn't want to leave, but he wasn't given a choice in the matter. I wished him a happy birthday via a text message, then less than twelve hours later he was gone. Without warning, the world just snatched him away.

I miss him. Every single day, I remember that he's no longer around at least a few dozen times, and I feel that void in my heart where he used to be. That existential ache that only comes when I realize that my friend is truly lost to me, that nothing I can ever do or say will bring him back. There are times when all I can do is wordlessly sob into my own hands because my friend is dead and I feel so desperately alone in this world. I momentarily fall apart while doing the dishes or walking the dog, stumbling and struggling for breath like a man who's just gotten the wind knocked out of him by a sucker punch to the diaphragm.

I sat in the dark after I saw him in the hospital, tears streaming down my face, and I begged a god that I didn't believe in to take me instead, to save him and let me die in his place. And I realized with a rush of clarity that I meant what I had said. I would have traded my life for his.

In all the selfish years of my life, I never truly entertained such a thought. When various family members died, I mourned them, and I missed them, but I never wanted to take their place. I would rather live, no matter how miserable my existence becomes. It always seemed better than the alternative. But in that moment, in that terrible moment of loss when I knew that my friend was gone, I would have given anything to bring him back, even my own life. That's how much he mattered to me. How much he matters to me.

He's gone. The only person to whom I could tell anything. The only person around whom I never had to wear some kind of mask. The only person I knew I could trust implicitly with any secret. My best friend. The only guy in the world crazy enough to put up with my shit for all these years.

I've made all the memories with Titus that I ever will make. He exists now only in the past-tense, as someone who existed, as opposed to those who still exist, for whatever purpose. The world is a darker, drearier place without his presence, without his laughter. But I'll keep trudging along in this miserable old world, because I owe him that much. I owe him a lot more than that, truth be told, a debt I will never be able to repay. His friendship was a precious gift, and I am forever grateful to him for that gift.

I'll never forget that kind-faced kid who asked to read my copy of Wizard magazine that otherwise uneventful afternoon In June. And I'll never forget the years of joy, sadness and shenanigans we had in the years since that day. They were the best years of my life, because he was a part of them.

Titus Tsimonjela lived.

Titus Tsimonjela mattered.

I love you, brother. You mean the world to me. And I will remember you.

 Goodnight.