JDC and I used to thank everything under the sun that the technology that powered cell phone cameras was not readily available in our college days. There were pranks, covert drinking underneath the eave of the psychology building, overt drinking at Salty Nut. There was travel to the midwest (seriously, how did we end up in Minnesota and Iowa), crazy people on planes, strange pillows. We talked about our parents; we talked about his girls and my boys. There was a lot of laughter – but not in the sweet way, I’m talking about the kind of laughter that left you sore.
We actually met in high school. A half-state apart, the world of YIG and debate brought us together. I took my role as a debater very very seriously; he was much more laid back. It almost scared me – to see him at the front of a re-purposed classroom, giving a speech with nothing in his hands. I couldn’t let go of a yellow legal pad – but he knew what to say and how to say it. He was funny, sarcastic, and could weave one hell of a story.
In college, we spent time together in that fluid way of all college students. We were on the Mock Trial team together, had classes together. He was always one of my crushes for the epic Tri-Delta Crush Party each year. One year – at Jungle Jim’s – we both got so drunk we could barely remember our names. We had to drive to Spartanburg for a mock trial competition. I was supposed to drive, but after getting up and trying to swallow some gatorade, I knew I wasn’t going to make it to his dorm on the Horseshoe, let alone make it the hour and a half to Sparkle City. He, gentleman that he was, offered to drive. We loaded up the Taurus. About half way there, I begged him to pull over, but we were running late. Instead, he rolled down the window and let me vomit all over the red Ford 150 in the next lane. If you haven’t puked roaring up I-85, with JDC laughing hysterically next to you, you haven’t lived.
JDC was there in Mississippi. He was in my wedding. He called me on Christmas night when I thought my world was falling apart. He told me that all the boys were a little intimidated of me in high school – not because of my speaking skill per se – but because of the short red skirts I used to wear. When I was still living in Columbia, he met K on one of his first weekends up from Florida. We drank scotch in my kitchen until dawn (ahem, they drank scotch). I actually went to bed and let them talk. Two lawyers. Two men who I love. Loved.
At first, when his facebook page started blowing up, I thought it was the worst possible April Fool’s prank. Ever. Until it spread and spread and do people really say RIP? There aren’t a lot of details yet, and I’m still in a little shock that this guy is gone. This is probably the worst ever way to talk abut him too – I mean, the man could tell a story.