By David Himmel

A few weeks ago, my son, Harry, had a bad day. Like most six-year-olds, he’s not one to talk about the details of the bad day. If it was a peer who told me he had a bad a day, and I ask why, and he responds with vague details, I might assume he doesn’t want to get into it, so I’ll drop the subject. But as a parent, it’s our job to push the issue. Not to force the details, but to have the conversation with the intent of instilling in the child’s mind that their parent can be trusted and is there to listen and help, should they need or want it. This is what I did with Harry.

After we put his baby brother down to sleep, I invited Harry outside to our patio couch for a glass of chocolate milk and a chat. The air was that wonderful mix of summer warmth wrapped in crisp, autumn air. The sky was about to go dark as it boasted the last of its sunsetting delicate pinks and blues. I asked him again about his day. “Why was it a bad day? Anything you want to talk about?”

“I’m just sad,” he said.

“Okay. About what?”

“My friends were bullying me.”

He explained that during recess, his friends wouldn’t let him call a time out during what sounded to me like a highly complicated and competitive game of tag. It didn’t sound like bullying in the conventional sense. It sounded to me like kids being kids sorting out their social understanding on the battlefield that is the schoolyard playground. But “bullying” is a word Harry understands as when kids aren’t nice to you. And he’s not wrong. Though he lacks the nuance of the word and, while an incredible reader and truly smart kid, he also lacks the vocabulary to label his friendly disagreement as anything other than bullying.

I empathized with him. I told him that sometimes friends fight, but they often work it out. “Remember this,” I said, “so the next time you guys are playing and someone wants to take a time out, you give it to them. That way, they’ll probably let you take one next time, too. Lead by example Harry.” He seemed to understand what I was getting at.

Then, to paint a picture of real bullying, I told him about a few guys who bullied me in school. The name calling. The violent threats. The coming to my house looking for a fight.

“Did your bullies make you sad?” Harry said.

“Sad? Not really. Upset, angry. Scared, sometimes.”

“What are the two saddest things that ever happened to you, Dad?”

That’s a heavy question. Not just the saddest thing, but the top two? I’m forty-five years old. I’ve had my share of sad moments. But I didn’t have to dig deep to give him the answer.

“Well, Harry, the saddest thing that ever happened to me was Mike Zigler dying.”

Harry knows about Zigler. He knows he was my best friend. He’s seen photos, including the ones of Zigler and I hanging up in our house. He’s heard some of the stories. He’s heard me talk about the kind of person Mike was—caring, funny, thoughtful, driven, intelligent. He knows his middle name, Scott, was Zigler’s middle name and that he was named, in part, after my old, dead pal. And he knows how Mike died. In his car. In my garage. Because he had a drinking problem that he pushed too far.

And that’s where we are today, the anniversary of Zigler’s death. October 16, 2009. Fifteen years ago. Fifteen years…

I’ve written plenty about Zigler and about Zigler’s death. I’ve told the story, as well as all the great stories of the man before he drunkenly nodded off. To know me, is to know Zigler. It’s kept him alive, which is nice. Each October 16, I’ll send a “Happy Mike Zigler Day” text to our friend group. My dad always sends me a text saying, “We remember Zigler.” I received that text this morning while getting ready for the day and I had to pause to let out a little cry. My friend Claudia, who never met the guy, sent me a text this morning that she was “Thinking of [me] on Mike Zigler Day.” Again, a bit of a cry. My friend Jordan was with me on the first anniversary of his death, which was the big one. And she’ll be with me to hang out tonight, too.

It’s been fifteen years since he’s been gone and it still gets me. It’s not crippling, but I’m still mad about it. And, of course, I’m still sad about it. It hits me differently than other anniversaries of the Dearly Departed. Of course I miss Grampa, Poppy, Nonny, my dogs Max and Eddie, my buddy Joey DeFrancesco, and the others. But Zigler’s death is the saddest thing to happen to me for a reason. It came at the perfect time.

My life was already in a state of deep misery. In a bad relationship, unemployed, sorting through an intense feeling of self-uncertainty and fear. And for Mike, it came too soon. He was not even thirty years old yet. He was on the upswing from his recent troubled chapter. The man could have been so much, but his vice snuffed it all out.

It’s the saddest thing to happen to me because it lingers. It lingers the way the smell of fried food lingers on your clothes. The way cigarette smoke lingers in the skin of your fingers. The way “Hotel California” lingers in your head. None of this is good.

It lingers because Zigler and I had an understanding.

I am fortunate. I have been blessed by the gods to have a really solid and large group of really, really good friends. I’d rather pick my favorite child than have to pick just one best friend. I’m lucky that way. While each friend has that special thing about them which holds that unique, special place in my heart and my soul, Zigler, like Obi-Wan, has grown more powerful in death.

This understanding we shared… it’s difficult to describe. It’s also quite simple. We understood each other. We forgave one another in real time. At times, we could not disagree more but always respected why the other total fucking idiot felt the way he felt, no matter how wrong he was. From my vantage point, my and Zigler’s relationship was the smoothest and easiest I’ve ever known. This is not to diminish my other relationships at all. It’s that deep down, I know Zigler and I were more alike than I might be with anyone else.

We shared the same boiling passion for knowledge, action, adventure, living life hard, fast, and for the sake of the story. We also shared a boiling disgust for hypocrisy, hubris, mean-spiritedness, and, at times, for ourselves. We were constantly brawling with the crazed beasts living within our psyches and our guts. We came from very different places with very different experiences, but when we arrived to one another, we found that we’d been forged in the same style and together, we’d have to do better personally, professionally, and in a way that could leave the world a better place. Kindness. Action. Selflessness. Of course, like most every living human, we were imperfect. Unkind. Lazy. Selfish. Zigler and I understand that those weren’t flaws but features. And we helped each other leverage them so we could do more good than harm.

I like to think we got there. Not by a lot, no, no. But by a little. At least enough to cover the spread.

Thing is, the jury is still out on me. So long as I’m humping along through this mortal coil, I’m challenged to be the better version of me. To be kind, actionable, and selfless more than I am their evil antonyms. Throughout the last fifteen years, I’ve struggled to be that better version. Who among us doesn’t? When I get real low, real lost in myself, drowning in the pile of my own make, I find myself reaching out for Zigler in kind of a WWZD thought process. Not exactly what would Zigler do himself, but what would Zigler and I do together.

I’ve been accused of dwelling too much on the past. I disagree. I’m a very forward thinker, but I do carry the past with me. It’s my anchor. It’s my guidepost. It’s the familiarity and understanding I need when I get lost in the Sea of Shit. So, am I dwelling on Zigler’s passing? No. Today, on Mike Zigler Day, I’m simply recalling the moment my life changed. Another mile marker. Another chapter. Another chink in the armor. Another shot in the arm. Another kick in the nuggets. Another reason to keep going.

Zigler dying is the saddest thing that’s happened to me because it is the sad thing that became the most formative of them all. In don’t have childhood trauma to lean back on. I have the trauma of my best friend falling off the wagon and dying. And from that, I have the guilt of believing more than I believe anything else, that had I been living in Las Vegas when this happened, had I been there, it wouldn’t have happened. I’d have kept him on the wagon. I’d have found him before it was too late. And if that had been the case, who knows where my life would have taken me. It is real easy for me to consider this flap of the butterfly’s wings and paint a completely different life for myself. But there’s no point in spending too much time with that because unlike Zigler, I have this live to live right now. And a big part of that life is remembering my friend.

It’s easy to do. Every time I need to bark Harry’s full name at him, Zigler is there. Every time I drink a Miller Lite, Zigler is there. Every time I meet someone new or have an awesome experience, Zigler is there because I get really annoyed that he’s not actually there. I get real annoyed that he’s missing this. I get real annoyed that through the bad and the good, I’m doing this alone. Even though I’m not. Because I’m fortunate. I have best friends. And on this day, on Mike Zigler Day, I want nothing more than for all of us to go hang out with Zigler.

It doesn’t matter where. A concert. A newspaper office. A bar. A national park. Poolside. Taco Bell. A small desert town. A slightly larger midwestern town. A patio. A campground. Anywhere. Because Zigler was always down for anything anywhere. Instead, we’ll have to settle for my heart. And the hearts of those who knew him. And, I think, the hearts of those who never did.

Maybe I’ll stop writing about him. Maybe, at the very least, I’ll stop writing about it. The thing. The dying. The day. But fifteen years feels special. We like our anniversaries. And this time of the year is reflective for me anyway. The changing of the seasons, the new school year, the Day of Atonement following the Jewish New Year I can’t help and refuse to shake. It’s a kind of serendipity that Mike Zigler Day comes smack in the middle of my Reflective Season. So, we’ll see. I mean, this is the saddest thing to ever happen to me.

Oh, and the second saddest thing to ever happen to me? Well, I successfully avoided answering Harry on that one. I’m not ready to talk about that one. Not yet with Harry, anyway. Though, I have a suspicion he already knows. The kid gets me. He’s a lot like Zigler in that way.