The Dirtbombs - “Good Life”
On Monday, the partner of a good friend of mine, Gord, died. He had leukemia. He was pretty young. Forty-one is too young to die, isn’t it? Any age is too young, but fighting cancer for five years is a special form of shittiness.
I didn’t know Gord that well. He was quiet, and although I have been friends with his partner Nicole for close to a decade, I didn’t see Nicole much while they dated and lived together. I chatted with Nicole through email every day. We kept up with each other’s life through quick jokes and complaints. And we’d see each other off and on. But nothing like the drunken epic nights we’d wasted together in our early bookstore days.
I also suspected that Gord didn’t like me. He was quiet, and he was a music nerd and he took the things he liked very seriously. He even said it, over and over, “Seriously?” He worked in the audio department of the CBC, and I guessed he thought my dance-y, disco taste in music was terrible. He seemed to laugh dismissively at everything he thought was dumb or tired, and he liked punk and hardcore. I did the math.
But one day, when I was crossing the street outside the CBC, taking photos for a blog, he saw me crossing and this huge smile leapt across his face. His leukemia had recently gone into remission and he was back at work and he said, “Hey Matthew, how’s it going!” I was so shocked by this unexpected friendliness from someone I suspected quasi-disliked me that I nearly stepped into a car’s path. Safe on the sidewalk, we had a friendly conversation. It was sweeter for adding to the day’s sunshine. And maybe sweetened more because Gord was in the commuting rush of perfectly normal people heading home.
Nicole and Gord had a child. They named her Frances, or Frankie. Last summer, our friend Andrew decided to bring over East Indian roti to their house to visit the little family. I hadn’t seen her yet, so I took it as my chance. Just a fact: when other parents say their child is cute, they are wrong. Frankie is adorable. Frankie sat in my lap, her little blue eyes looking exactly like her father’s, staring up at me and with her grip, tested my finger.
Later, we went into the living room and Gord began playing us records. Nicole told me how happy she was with Frankie. Gord played Congotronics and the Dirtbombs “Good Life.” He had been quiet during the meal, but he was excited by the music, showing us his box sets, the vinyl covers. “The Dirtbombs did a cover of their favorite Detroit house and techno songs,” he said as I flipped through the album’s photos. He smiled as if the world had played him an expertly played joke. “I think this one is really good.”
We discussed the situation. Gord’s cancer had come back; he was planning on getting a bone marrow transplant in the fall. But everyone was optimistic, or maybe I was just hoping they were. “They’ve actually found two matches,” Nicole said. When I was leaving, Gord seemed so energized by the visit that he was up and pacing the floor. I was too.
Gord and Nicole waved from their second floor deck while their downstairs neighbour angrily cleaned his barbecue. I got on my bike, smiling to myself that I could be a small part of their life. It was reassuring to have places like this where I am welcome to hold a baby; welcome to hear some good music.
