What He Won't Be

What He Won’t Be

It was a sunny day three or four months ago when I pulled into that gas station parking lot and met my appointment with fate. The weather was unseasonably nice and my windows were rolled down. Grieves' "Scar Gardens" was playing on my stereo just loud enough for me to listen to it while I pumped a tank's full of gas.

He walked out of the station, and, as he slowly passed my car, our eyes met. After a drop of his head and skip in his step he pulled the pump from its perch and started filling his SUV. I laughed to myself as I noticed the one hand in his pocket. He was a soldier and a soldier in uniform, and his hand was in his pocket. Part of me was bothered by it, and I didn't know why. I've always felt like that is the absolute most inane rule in the military: don't put your hands in your pockets. I didn't say anything; I mean, who am I anyway?

A short time later, he spoke up. "You like that? If you like hip hop, you'd probably like my stuff, man. I'm a musician." he said as he tried to hand me a CD. "$5 is all it is." I didn't have any cash and asked if he had a Myspace address where I could preview it.

"Yeah, sure. www.myspace.com/EastCoBar That's East Coast Born and Raised my man; I'm from South Carolina. I'm going back there one day; I love it there."

I wrote it down, finished pumping, shook his hand, and made my way onto Cache Road, Grieves still pumping through eardrums.

I tapped the space bar to awake the computer from its sleep as I pulled the piece of paper out of my pocket: www.myspace.com/EastCoBar I typed into the address bar. The first song that caught my eye was "Desert Voice", making me lean forward in my chair and place my feet flatly on the floor. I listened to the lyrics intently as I thought of all the emotions that he and I shared about our experience in that country so far away. I wrote him as I listened to that song over and over:

"Hey man. I checked out your page and I like what I hear. I don't know if you've heard of us, but I'm a regional coordinator for Iraq Veterans Against the War and we just started a Lawton-Fort Sill chapter. Our website is www.ivaw.org and I'd love to have you as a member. We put on a hip hop concert for Veterans Day and I think you'd make a great addition. Let me know what you think."

When I got his reply, I pumped my fist as I read how enthusiastic he seemed to be about joining IVAW, hosting benefit concerts, and plugging all his active-duty and musician friends into the movement. He was going to join, and we were going to have the beginnings of one Hell of an IVAW chapter, I thought.

We continued to correspond. Our near-future schedules did not match up well, but we vowed to meet for a beer and start planning our strategy. Weeks went by, then months. I started to wonder if he had been spooked or changed his mind. I wrote him last week:

"Hey, man. I hadn't heard from you in a while. I'm still excited about having you join up and I want to meet up soon. Let me know what time is good."

The reply I received floored me:

How are you Justin, My name is David... Easterling was shot and killed Jan 28 monday night...I am making sure his website stays up and some of his works stay alive, for those that know him and Love him. I am a good friend of Easts I am active duty and have been deployed, and If you would like to meet up to discuss this matter, email me take care Godbless

Ira Easterling was 27 years old. He was a private, a musician, a father, a lover, a veteran, a patriot, a dreamer, a friend to many, and an enemy to one. That enemy, for whatever reason, shot and killed him outside a local night club where Easterling was performing. Sadly, he is just the latest statistic in the wave of violence and murder that has enveloped my city over the past two years. He's the second person I knew to have been murdered in a year, the first one having been shot by a nineteen-year old toting an AK-47. It's a sad commentary on a town that I remember as being a safe place to grow up to know two murder victims in a year, but this is the reality of Lawton, Oklahoma as of right now.

A tinge of guilt came over me as I thought about all the things that Easterling wouldn't be able to do now that he had been so tragically taken. He wouldn't be the face of IVAW Lawton-Fort Sill. He wouldn't plug me into his active-duty patriot friends. He would never emcee an IVAW benefit concert in L-Town. He wouldn't contribute to the IVAW benefit CDs that get produced. He wouldn't be my friend and ally.

But, really, what is most important here? Ira Easterling will never again be a friend to the men he served with in Iraq. He'll never again hold and comfort his children. He'll never love his significant other again. He'll never tell his mother he loves her. He'll never again relive his dream of being the emcee everyone loves. He'll never get to mentor a young man with his same dreams, problems, or both. He'll never again rock the mic or bring a smile to a stranger's face at a gas station on Cache Road. He'll never be a well-known rapper. He'll never be a grandfather. He'll never be an old man. He'll never . . . be.

So, what kind of blog is this? I don't know. Is it about another Iraq veteran? Senseless violence? Love? Hate? Fate? Yes, no to everything. It's about life, and life consists of everything above and so much more. It's precious. It's fragile, and it's undervalued.

I didn't know Ira in the way that would allow to eulogize him at his funeral or share stories with the best of his friends, but I know enough to know that he lived his life by the ethic that is described in my favorite quote:

There is more to life than increasing its speed.

Judging by his pictures, the enthusiasm I saw in his face and heard in his voice, the melancholy that exists in the voice of his grieving friend, the introspection in some of his music, and the way he followed his dreams, he is a model to any of us who ever wanted to do something, but didn't. Ira took time to smell the roses . . . until someone took his life.