The Last Road Trip

HOUSTON (Sept. 16, 1984)--Two youths were killed, and three were injured late last night when their car hit a guard rail and overturned on Highway 15.

Police said the five young men, all students at Rice University, were returning from a fraternity party at rival Texas A&M when the accident occurred.

The youths had evidently been drinking, and empty beer cans were found in the wreckage, a police spokesman said.

Two of the youths were pronounced dead on the scene and a third was rushed into surgery at Houston Memorial Hospital. Hospital officials were withholding the victims' names pending notification of their families.

* * *

The last time I saw Ike was one year ago, almost to the day. We had grown up together. We skipped religious school together. We went to high school together. We hung out together. We weren't the closest, but we shared the same friends.

That August night, we found ourselves in the usual place, amid familiar company. As the summer of 1984 drew to a close, Ike and I sat sipping Michelobs, watching cable T.V., critiquing videos, and reminiscing in Rich's basement. Rich, Neil and Mike were also there, of course. Everything was as it always had been.

We grumbled about the rapid approach of the coming school year, which would soon scatter us across the country. No one realized it was the last time we'd all be together that summer. And no one suspected that we'd be reunited within a month--for a funeral.

One year earlier, before we went away to college for the first time, we had gone out for a final celebration. That evening ended with the Rocky Horror Picture Show and a slightly buzzed Ike behind the wheel of his parents' Plymouth Volare (He had cracked up his own GTO a few months earlier. Miraculously, he had escaped injury, unless you count his father's wrath.)

Ike always had been a little reckless. He was an exceptionally smart kid, but he took few things seriously. He was in rare form the day we took the Scholastic Aptitude Test. The Proctor gave us a five-minute break between sections, but Ike stayed in the hall for 15 minutes. He took the test again and managed to impress the admissions people at Rice.

One year at college saw a startling metamorphosis. Ike spoke enthusiastically about his politics courses, and a disciplined exercise regimen had added a good 30 pounds of muscle to his slight frame. He looked healthy. He seemed happy. He spent much of last summer doing what he enjoyed most satling on his family's boat.

And when the vacation ended, we parted without a word.

* * *

It was after 1:00 a.m. when the telephone shook Ike's father from a sound sleep that September morning. The anonymous voice of a Texas state trooper came over the line through 2000 miles of static.

"It's all over." the voice said. "It's all over. Your son is dead."

* * *

The news travelled quickly Two nights later, Rich, Neil and I stood at Ike's front door to pay our respects to his family and to share their grief. I remember speechlessly shaking hands with Ike's father. I remember thinking. What do you say to a man who just lost his only son? I doubt he remembers seeing me at all that night. He was far away, or deep within himself.

Together, we sat in Ike's room, trading Ike stories and sifting through 19 years of clutter--Ike never threw anything away. Now, the clutter and memories are all that remain of an old friend. Ike's funeral was the following day. Hundreds of friends and relatives crowded the temple where we had once cut classes. Dozens of parents sat in the crowd, traumatized, pained, and guiltily thinking to themselves. Thank God that wasn't my kid.

Someone played a recording of Prince's "Purple Rain" into the microphone. The song was Ike's favorite, and it held special meaning for him.

They buried Ike next to his grandfather in a family plot.

Meanwhile, Ike's friends returned from the brink in a Texas hospital. They have since recovered from their injuries, but the deepest wounds will never heal.

* * *

Last Sunday family and friends visited Ike's grave to honor him with a traditional memorial service. The ceremony was supposed to mark the end of the mourning period, but for some, the grief will never diminish. And for others, grief lies waiting somewhere down the road, around the next bend, just past that last six-pack.

My friend Ike always was a lucky kid, but luck wasn't enough that might out Highway 15.