Poster Boy

And you saw him first at a party

Where you were shy and he was not

A leather jacket and boots, white shirt and black jeans

neatly done black hair

A smile that was infectious

The panther tattoo running down his forearm

He was the poster boy for cool.

The person people wanted to be around

you were seventeen, he was twenty-four.

And then he was at your house, at twenty-five, listening to records,

Telling you about the night you were about to have,

How you were gonna get elegant.

And he showed you how to dress, how to be less shy, how to listen to music in the right way, how to read the books, how to be cool like him.

And on some days you wanted to live in his skin for just a moment, just to see what it was like.

And you saw him once at twenty-six, talking to a man who didn’t look like a man he would be talking to.

Then, once again back at your house, in your bathroom with a needle in his arm, the tattooed panther looking more worn than before.

And then again, at a party you didn’t think he’d be at, and he was less charming and threw a chair at someone, and stole someone’s wallet … your wallet.

And you met him once at a house that was dirty, televisions stacked atop other televisions, no one fully aware of anyone else there. A place where he wasn’t the life of the party. He was just there, thin, black eyed and run down, and you just wanted your wallet back.

And you saw him again, in a dirty shirt, dishevelled, malnourished, hungry and alone. And he looked at you, but somehow past you, like he saw something so far away.

You saw him once, back on his feet, clean shaven and alive. Fresh out of rehab and on his way to somewhere you felt was important, wearing a glow you hadn’t seen him wear since that first night you met him.

And then you saw him again, once more, in a box – closed in, not able to move and shake anymore, not able to charm his way into anything, not able lead a conversation or tell that interesting story. Just still.

He loved vanilla coke, that’s something you’ll always remember.

He was dead at twenty-seven, in a public toilet at Central Station. His name was James Forester, but everyone called him Jazzy.

You’d like to think that he was your best friend.

Ben Bonney is a Naarm-based writer, currently completing the Associate Degree in Professional Writing and Editing at RMIT.

Illustration by H J Ford.