Ashes to Ashes.

Sometimes in life, the unthinkable occurs.

Alonzo Schoolfield was my best friend in this life. On Wednesday, December 14, 2011, Alonzo passed on.   He was 29  years old. He is survived by his mother, aunt, sister, brother, nephews, cousins, and countless friends. He was one of the most beautiful souls I've been privileged to come across. I loved him.

Out of respect for his and his family's privacy, I will not discuss the conditions by which he passed on. I will only discuss my relationship to him.

I've known Alonzo ever since middle school. In Mount Vernon, my hometown, located 20 minutes from Manhattan in lower Westchester County just outside of the Bronx, there were two middle schools while we were growing up. I went to Franko. Alonzo went to Davis. I met Alonzo in FHA, Future Homemakers of America. We'd gone on a field trip upstate for a conference. We clicked.

Alonzo and I spent the next four years of our high school career developing a bond. We'd seen each other through ... so much. We grew up together and in front of each other. He was one of the first (if not the first) person I came out to (when I was bisexual). We went through phases together. We shared secrets. We shared laughs. We shared tears. We shared adventures. We shared life.

Life went on, and we somehow managed to remain close, overcoming the challenges of distance that going to university provided. I'd drive down often. He'd come to visit me.

Alonzo was the glue that held people together. He had a way about him, a light. He brought people together. He made us laugh. He had this way of making anyone he met feel on top of the world. People met him and never forgot him. He had a presence. And when someone would meet him for the first time, he had this way of making that person immediately feel like they were his best friend. I laugh: it was almost a curse - Alonzo attracted people, they'd gravitate toward him, whether he wanted them to or not. But those who really knew him... knew him. They saw into him. He was open and revealed himself, baring his soul at one time or another. We knew his ways, his quirks, his habits, what made him mad, what made him laugh, and he knew ours.

And he'd fight for you. I've seen him cross 6th Avenue traffic at warp speed, criss-crossing in and out of cars, to save a friend from doing something that would've been detrimental to that person. Anyone who underestimated Alonzo was in for a surprise. At 6 feet tall, although Alonzo was pretty, Alonzo was formidable, and if necessary, he could slap a bitch up or with a shrewd tongue, outtalk the best of them. At the Big Cup, a coffee shop I dragged him, Ayana, and Jamila (mutual friends and sisters) to often, I lent a woman my cell phone when she asked to make one call, claiming duress. 20 minutes later, she was still on it. Indignant, Ayana grabbed the phone out of the woman's hand and we all walked out. The woman ran after us, calling out, "Can I give you some money for the calls?" Alonzo retorted, "How 'bout you use that money to buy a cell phone, honey!"

Although Alonzo loved attention, he was in essence humble. This made him complicated. He'd rock out, but deep down, he didn't realize just how much he brought to people's lives. Or at least, he didn't flaunt it. Throughout his life, Alonzo gave counsel. He often spoke of having his own talk show. The ratings would have been through the roof. The world will miss out.

Ayana, Jamila, an ex of mine, and I, drove down south to save Alonzo once. I'll spare the details. When he and I would argue, this would be something I used as defense. God, the arguments he and I had. We argued like we were married. After a time, we'd always come back to each other. We'd pick up right where we left off: after an argument, or even, after months of not seeing each other. I digress. As it turns out, despite having rescued him on that occasion, and probably on others, he really rescued me. He rescued us. He saved me. He made me see who I was, even when I didn't want to see it. He listened. He counseled. Because of him, I was a better person.

I am grateful for the individuals in whom he confided. Those who were there for him when I was not. I wish... I am filled with regret. I wish I could go back in time and spend every waking moment with him. Or at least, every moment when he encouraged me to come out and I stayed in, or when I could have called and didn't... I wish I could have all of that back. I am terrified I will forget. I hold onto and cherish these memories that I have of him, these few and happy memories. They aren't enough. I want more. I know, though, that I am being selfish.

I have done many bad things in my life. I have hurt people I love. Alonzo accepted me through everything. He gathered our group when I was losing myself with the Ex and came to Brooklyn to see me. He gathered our group again when it was happening again with BG, another ex, and came to Brooklyn to see me. I was so foolish, so selfish, so ungrateful -- I didn't see then what I see now. Every moment, every single breath, every single smile is so important. There is no time for trivial pursuits in this lifetime. Alonzo knew that.

The holidays are tough now. Two years ago, Kirk, a friend from high school I cared for very much, passed away. Last year, two people I loved passed within two weeks of each other. When Ayana and Jamila's aunt died, I was a coward. She was the second to pass on, and I ran away from it. I was in such pain that I avoided acknowledging reality. In doing so, I was not there for the people I love. Alonzo tried to get me to see that just my having been there, or calling, would have been enough. I was foolish and didn't want to hear any of it. I am sorry for this. I will regret this and the time lost that resulted from this. I will regret not having been there for Ayana's two beautiful children.

A week after, I found out a former student of mine passed away. He committed suicide. No one knows why. This affected me greatly. I felt like I was losing control over life. I wanted to die, too. I felt I should no longer teach. I felt that I could have somehow stopped it. I subsequently began taking control over my life by inflicting pain onto BG when I broke up with him on Christmas Eve. I am sorry for having done this. I was hurting and losing control over... everything.

One year into the future: Alonzo. God. I sit here and write this. I wish I could see his face again.

Two days before Alonzo went into the hospital, he and I, as usual, had a fight. I haven't been able to really say this out loud, and I know it doesn't make sense, but God, I feel so guilty. I feel, perhaps irrationally so, that what I said induced additional stress, thereby contributing to Alonzo's going into the hospital. I am filled with regret. I wish I could take it back. I wish I could take it all back.

The last time I saw Alonzo alive, his eyes were open. I sat in his hospital room alone. I was looking down at my phone. When I looked up, I was startled. Alonzo stared right at me, right into my eyes. It was a rare moment when he made eye contact. I begged him to wake up and get better... to fight. Every fiber of my being has to believe he saw me and knew I was present, there, in that moment. I felt him. I felt him for the first time in months. I went over to him and, although I'd had moments when I'd talk to him before this, I reiterated how much I loved him. I told him that although he could not speak, I knew he could hear me. When I got up to leave, he looked into my eyes once more. Deep down, I was scared. I didn't want to admit it, but I somehow knew it was going to be the last time I'd see him alive. I said goodbye.

On Wednesday afternoon, Ayana called me while at work. She said she had bad news. She said Alonzo passed. I was alone in my classroom. The sun was streaming through my windows. It was unusually peaceful. I didn't know what to say. I regained a sense of control, gathered my things, and attempted to leave the building. I was intercepted by some colleagues, some friends, and I immediately began to cry. They brought me into the stairwell, away from the prying eyes of students who remained after school. I collapsed and I wailed. I had trouble breathing. I could not believe it. My friend, my brother, was gone. Colleagues came in and out of the stairwell investigating what was happening. At some point, my principal gave me a cup of water. I barely remember any of it; it all happened so quickly, it was a blur.

I drove to the hospital. It became all too real when the woman at the check-in asked if I had contacted the family. I said I knew, but would it be possible to see him. She said they weren't allowing it.

I managed to get through that night. That night, I visited Alonzo's mom. I then spent time with Jamila and Nise. We went shopping. I slept over a friend's house, if one could call it sleeping. I tossed and turned. I went to work the next day, and amazingly, arrived on time. They didn't expect me in, having called a substitute teacher in for me. I kept busy. I didn't want to think. That night, I joined a friend, Oso, out for drinks. We met at the Ritz in Hell's Kitchen. Deciding the atmosphere wasn't conducive to discussion, we decided to walk to a nearby bar, ironically called Therapy. We never made it to Therapy, though. En route, we passed a clothing store called Tagg. They were having a Christmas Party and were offering anyone free drinks. We, of course, took full advantage of this. We drank, we took our pictures with a ripped Santa, we bought ties... the entire time I wished Zo was there. I gave my phone number to several boys there. All I heard in my mind was my Zoboy saying, "Oh, you whore!" It was bittersweet, the smile which crept onto my face at this thought. Afterward, we went to Vinyl, a trendy little restaurant with a musical motif. We could have sworn Lance Bass sat nearby. I bid Oso goodbye and drove home to fall asleep into a stupor.

Friday, I went to the service. My cousin, who'd met Alonzo several times, came to support me. My roommate, a friend of Alonzo's since 5th grade, rode with me, as did one of his cousin's and another friend. We arrived. I hugged everyone who loved Alonzo. Because they loved him, I loved them. I avoided looking at him for some time, until finally I looked up to see him in his casket. He was beautiful. He was at peace. I stared. I wanted to burn this last image of him into my memory. I never wanted to forget him.

The service was beautiful, although the damn preacher called him Alfonso. By the fifth time, the entire congregation, in unison, bellowed "Alonzo!" Only Alonzo, only Alonzo.

 I wasn't using this as a time to grow closer to those I'd hurt in the past, but I couldn't help but pour out my love of Alonzo onto them. I think he would have wanted us to be there for each other and I think we all were. We drove to the cemetery. His plot overlooks a highway. He used to love road-trips. I think it was an appropriate and beautiful spot for him. They released doves and one of his best friend's... his brother for all intents and purposes, someone I am incredibly thankful for, read.

Later, we ate and commiserated. We talked. We talked about Alonzo. While at his house, I found myself longing for companionship... someone who I was in love with to speak to. I texted the Dancer who had stood me up on a date 3 times. I asked him what I had done. He explained to me that he couldn't talk because he was at work and he'd get back to me later. I didn't hold my breath. I heard Alonzo's voice in my head... counseling me... asking me why I felt the need to do that. I was empty. I needed love. At least, I thought I did.

I went with my cousin to Brooklyn and joined her at an artist party at an artist space called the Third Ward. I kept mostly to myself. As I drank wine, I found myself creeping into an empty computer room. I found myself staring at pictures of Zo on Facebook. I missed him.

I went with my cousin back to her loft and ate dinner with she, her partner and their friend. I bid them goodbye and found myself in a cab headed up to Hell's Kitchen to meet one of the boys I gave my number to. A 30 dollar cab ride later, I was in a basement apartment amid gays galore. I was greeted by a guy who said it was his birthday (it was in fact his friend's birthday) and I had to "give him a present." I responded in turn, "Happy Birthday," to which he revealed the truth, that it wasn't his, and said he'd still take sex or drugs. I informed him I couldn't help him with either and quickly walked away to find the open bar. I had a drink and chatted it up with a guy called Guy, a wide-eyed Boston dancer who, unlike 99% of the guys there, actually had something intelligible and sincere to say. We exchanged numbers and he sweetly asked to have dinner with me, saying he wanted to get to know me better.

I found the boy I was invited by in the small open patio in the back of the apartment. He was giving his phone number to another guy. Total turn off, especially as he knew I was there looking for him. I asked him later on if I had intruded on his mack, to which he defensively responded, "I am single!" He then implied I was being insecure. I explained it didn't phase me one way or another... it may not have been a turn on but he was fully able to 'do him,' and it really didn't bother me. He owed me nothing.

We walked over to his friend's one-room apartment a block away. The guy whose important it was began changing and putting on make up for the forthcoming evening. He then showed me porn on, to my amazement, public access. Then the bartender from the evening before at Tagg showed up. Coincidentally, he was also on the previous week's cover of Next. They began a whirlwind of fast-talking, pointless conversation that reminded me of the conversations I think I might have had when I was 21. It was a ballet of hair product, shirtlessness, and discussion about their latest conquests. I was quiet. I just didn't feel like talking, and being dressed still in the outfit I wore to Zo's service, I wasn't quite physically prepared to be 'out and about.' Still, I went with it.

We went to the Ritz, which was packed. Too packed. I felt cramped. Drinks were constantly threatening the purple shirt I wore. We left and found ourselves at Posh, where the boy I was with began conversing with the guy to whom he gave his number earlier in the night... no doubt it was a planned rendezvous. I conversed with an older gay guy who attempted to grab my ass. I removed his hand and quickly told him I didn't vibe with that. Finally, last-call. I joined the boy, let's call him Brian, and his friend outside. At the conclusion of their cigarette, I bid them farewell. Brian's friend looked appalled. He asked if I was really leaving and I responded yes. Did they think I was going to sleep with either of them?

Sometimes you just need to go home alone and it was clear that these boys didn't understand this concept. And although I have more night's alone than not, I wasn't willing to compensate for the emptiness I felt by fucking a complete stranger. Still, I felt a void. As I took a cab home, along the Westside Highway, I began to cry. Alonzo loved the Westside Highway. How many nights did he and I make the trek to the Village down along this highway? I began wondering, would the pain go away? How would I fill this emptiness? Could I? Was it possible? And how long would it take to regain a sense of normalcy? How long would it take until I didn't want to join him?

Back at home, in my bed, staring at my alarm clock. 4:30am. The day had been long. I was exhausted. I slept only because of exhaustion.

The next day, I woke up and immediately got out of the house. I had to keep busy. I went Christmas shopping in White Plains. While there at the mall, I greeted a good friend of Alonzo's. I asked him how he was but he heard something else. It occurred to me that maybe he wasn't ready to face it, maybe that's why he responded having maybe heard me say something else. I realized I wasn't ready to face it. After everything, the past few months, the past two years, it still seemed so sudden. So senseless. I drove to the City to meet coworkers and friends for Sushi. Cosmo after cosmo, I found my thoughts turning back to Alonzo. Here we were at Bamboo 52, the restaurant where I had my birthday this past June, a time I loved, and yet, here we were again, only the mood was so different for me. One by one, my coworkers left until finally, I bid my Jen, who was celebrating her end-of-semester, goodbye. I went next store to Therapy. I had half of a cosmo and drove home.

Harlem. Alone at home. I didn't know what to do. I texted Superman. I texted the Dancer. I texted the Ex. The Ex responded. I felt foolish but I was so lonely. I was so desperate for someone, anyone, to take the pain away. To fill the emptiness. I asked him over, saying I needed company, sparing all details. He said he would in an hour. By 7am, I realized he wasn't coming and I fell asleep. I explained to him via text that I had needed him and he hurt me by not showing up. Not showing up with me was reaching epidemic proportions. I'm not sure what I expected, though. After all, he is THE Ex for a reason. His diligence in 'coming through' and being forthright wasn't his strongest feature.

The next morning, I woke to sunlight streaming through my drawn shades. I wanted to avoid the day, but I forced myself out. I drove to the Upper West Side. Superman texted me, wishing me a Happy Sunday. I informed him that I called him last night. He said he was out and about in Brooklyn. I found myself upset at this. Why didn't he invite me? Wasn't he into me, too? Didn't he say he wanted me to be more open. I then realized that I was depending on others to help me get through the pain... others, who weren't friends, who were pseudo-love interests. I heard Alonzo in my head. Why was I doing this? What did I expect to come of this? Wasn't it okay for him, Superman, to have a life, too? I suppose I was upset because I'd told Superman about my best friend's passing and I would have thought that empathy and sensitivity would have resulted... after all, I've received an outpouring of support from friends I haven't spoken to in months, even years. Even another ex, a sweetheart, Geoff, someone I love very much, expressed sympathy. I realized, then, standing there staring "Uptown Cats," cats that were up for adoption, that the support was coming from friends... real friends... not hook-ups or potential love interests. I realized then that even Superman couldn't save you from everything. Sometimes you had to be your own Superman. Sometimes you had to take the love and support your friends gave you and carry on.

The Ex, at this very moment, texted me apologizing for having stood me up and asked me to grab a bite.  I didn't respond at first and then I told him that what bothered me was that, as usual, his story didn't make sense (insert useless details here). Seven hours later, he texted, "I apologise," again. The adage, "Take it with a grain of salt," comes to mind. Coincidentally, five minutes after he texted his first apologies, the Dancer texted his reasoning for having been M.I.A. He was scared. He gave a ultra-brief description as to why, to which I followed up with a few questions. I am still waiting for a response. I won't hold my breath.

I hear Zo's voice: "Maybe you need to love yourself, Pete, before you love others. Maybe you're looking for others to fill what you need to realize you already have in you." What was it Wendy Williams or Ru Paul or one of them would say? "If you can't love yourself, how in the hell you gon' love someone else? Can I get an Amen!"

Zo was right when he'd say that. I was looking, I have looked, I do look, for others to fulfill some void in me when, the entire time, I have it within me to do that. My best moments in my life are when I do the things that make me happy. I see guys searching for love on-line, in the street, hell, even on Facebook... when really, love will happen when you love yourself. Only then can one truly know that the person they are with loves them for them, and vise versa, and not because that other person is fulfilling some emptiness. Sure, our partners fulfill different roles in our lives. But I for one want to know that I didn't choose my partner out of some desperation or out of a place of emptiness or codependency. I am woman, hear me roar.

Alonzo's death will, like my love life, like the reformations of my past mistakes in my friendships, have to be taken one day at a time. I love Alonzo. He is my heart. He brought out the best in everyone. As I live my life now, he will still bring out the best in me. Despite his loss, he is not gone. We carry him on in us. In our memories. In our shared stories. And In our hearts.

This is dedicated to my best friend. Alonzo... Zoboy... I think of you now. I will think of you everyday. I cannot wait to see you again, whenever and where ever that will be.

And tonight? I am putting on jazz, having a cup of coffee, and going to bed, alone, sans text messages with anyone other than friends.