Tis the season to remember friends, some are alive and some are gone.
Some who have read mudcat for 10 years or more, have seen the brightest and kindest stars wink out.

I recall a friend who never wrote on mudcat but can be googled none the less. I remember him sitting on his living room sofa one night and then a flood of memories of friends and strangers sitting on sofas poured into my visual memory.

There is a great expanse of forgettable time lounging on the couch but sitting on a sofa for special events like family pictures or sitting more than the standard two people per sofa looking at the empty chair after a funeral, these memories last forever like an indestructible crystal as clear and hard as diamonds.

The most incredible encounter of the sofa kind, occurred sitting beside my good friend Roger McCall and passing a skinny joint of unremarkable homegrown among the five of us.

Roger had the most expressive face and gregarious laugh I have ever known. The joy and freedom in his eyes flowed directly into his command of a rich fascinating voice, which was probably why he was a famous radio personality. In fact if it were not for his intense joie d'vivre, you might notice that he was perhaps one of the most homely people alive.

Suddenly after holding his breathe for a few seconds Rogers's eyes were stuck in a fixed glare. His mouth contorted into the most horror driven shape I had ever seen. He seemed to cast his sight down an a look of ice cold fear surrounded him. People called to him but he was not with us. While we could see him he was far away seeing something that raised the hair on my neck.

"Roger, Roger" we called him, nudged him and knew something terrible had happened. His wife Denise thought it was a heart attack or seizure while I saw that he was completely disassociated as if he was in some sort of fugue state. I was imagining that he had stumbled over some dark memory of his past when he was a small black child in Alabama witnessing some unspeakable torture with surprised shock. Roger still pinched the joint in his slightly quivering fingers but never had I seen any kind of smoke effect a person like this.

Gradually Roger began to notice his surroundings and the deep expression of horror slowly melted over the next few minutes. A few weak words managed to escape his still gaping mouth while his eyes still gazed at a landscape far from the sofa of friends.

When we sensed that the unknown emergency had passed we all asked if he was OK but he still could not look at us directly. I asked him were he was and what he saw but he would not or could not tell me. My questions seemed to bolster his will to come all the way back and he put on a face that seemed to say nothing had happened and he didn't know what I was talking about. Ed dismissed the incident with a simple, you better watch your dope and laughed knowing full well the smoke was probably all males and wouldn't get a fly high.

I visited him at his night shift on the radio and did a few shows with my Star War voices like Vader's "LUUKE I yam your faaaather" for fun which was about the last I ever saw him. I moved to Boston and after moving a couple more times, someone found me on the internet and told me Roger had been Shot with a shotgun at close range in his chest.

I felt as though I had already witnessed his last moments on Earth all those years ago on that sofa. If I had not experienced another strange occurrence of time distortion precisely next door at 23 Strathallen Park, I would never entertain such an occult thought.
The killer was never sought or found and Roger is survived by his wife and child.Roger was a testament to the peace and love era and was not capable of making an enemy, except for the evil of someone else's greed.