wo weeks ago, I wrote about my fall from innocence ("Bullies, Zombies and Tang"). The bully in my life was Wyatt Pillsbury. For the purposes of that story, Wyatt was presented as a five-year-old’s worst nightmare. While none of what I wrote was false, the other side of the story is that Wyatt was also one of my close friends. Sure, he exerted his strength over me when it suited his needs. But what I didn’t say was that his strength was also used to defend me on more than one occasion. Through the years, people kept trying to define Wyatt as one thing or another, but he consistently proved that he could not be contained by any one label. He was both a rebel and a scholar, a punk and a tenderfoot. Now I have just learned that in doing things his own way and continuing with the tradition of his life, Wyatt has died in Africa.

As of now, details are non-existent. I heard the news from my parents who heard it from one of their friends. They don’t know if it was an accident, a disease, or perhaps even a terrorist. All we do know is that he left for Africa a little less than a year ago to join the Peace Corps... The Peace Corps! It was the last thing you would have expected from this kid if you only sort of knew him. Heck it was the last thing you would have expected from anybody in our small rural town in Central Maine. 25% of our classmates at Mount View High School dropped out before senior year. Only about 30% went on to any kind of post-secondary education, and a good portion of those dropped out after less than a year. Most of the rest were just smart enough to realize that they were better off being a loud voice in a very small room. They stuck around the area and the lucky ones got work at local garages doing oil changes. Mount View was not populated with kids who thought outside the proverbial box. Yet amidst this atmosphere, Wyatt was nothing less than... utopian in the way he lived his life.

Wyatt had charisma. That much was certain. Everybody wanted to be his friend. When he spoke, people paid attention. When there were votes for group leaders, he won almost unanimously. Teachers simultaneously loved and hated him. He was the most helpful student in class, yet at the same time, also the loudest wise-ass. One day in Kindergarten, he figured out how to pop his thumb back and forth. He showed the teacher and managed to convince her that he had broken his hand. She promptly freaked out and rushed him to the nurse who laughed at his ruse, saying, "Oh, he’s just double jointed."

On the playground, Wyatt could indeed be a bully. There were simply kids that everybody picked on and Wyatt usually led the assaults. Even we, as his friends worried that, on any given day, we would be on the receiving end of his persecution. He was like the ancient gods whom the people both lauded and feared at the same time. We never knew when Wyatt would send down lightning bolts against his own flock. Yet, I still remember Wyatt coming to my rescue one day as I ran for my life from a second-grader. Wyatt grabbed the older kid and threw him to the ground. That kid never bothered me again.

By the third grade, Wyatt was fighting sixth-graders, and winning. He was – in our eyes – invincible, unbeatable. We stood in awe as he cut down contender after contender, most of them several years older, and many pounds heavier. We felt safe walking through a rival town with Wyatt because we knew that if anybody decided to mess with us, Wyatt would take them out.

But as with any false god that one puts faith in, that faith was eventually shattered. I don’t remember where or when or against whom, but the day finally came when Wyatt lost. We had gotten so used to seeing him trounce every opponent, that eventually his fights became like watching a bad slasher film. You simply watched to see how the slasher was going to kill his next victim. In this case, the victim was a kid from a clique of losers at Mount View. A redneck. A kid who wore shit-kickers and a John Deer hat to school. We were the popular crowd. We were the ones who were supposed to keep the lesser people in their place. And Wyatt was our fearless leader. So when this hick and his lackeys started messing with us, Wyatt was there to set him straight. But before our very eyes, we were shocked when Wyatt took his first beating. We didn’t have the sanity right away to be concerned or horrified. We thought for sure that at any instant Wyatt was going to fight back, revealing that he had been playing the redneck the whole time. It took us a few seconds to regain our senses enough to finally pull the two off each other. We gave Wyatt a lot of elbow-room as we walked away. None of us wanted to be too close in case he decided to reclaim his honor... as if he ever needed to do so.

In school and after school, Wyatt had his own plan. He was a prom king candidate, but gave no apologies about making honor role in college level courses. He played in the band and marched on Memorial Day. He was in Odyssey of the Mind and the Boy Scouts. He joined the wrestling team when the cool sport was basketball. He dated cheerleaders but also went out with girls who were deemed "scrubs". He did his share of picking on anybody who stood out, but he was mean on his own terms. One day I came into the Junior High halls with a new hair cut: spiked. My lord, how the laugher echoed. Each arriving bus brought more and more kids who pointed and laughed and actually crushed down my spikes with their hands. It was all I could do not to cry. While I was at my lowest, up walked Wyatt for the final death blow. Instead, he said, "You know, it really doesn’t look that bad." Not the biggest compliment if you just read the words, but coming from him, it was the utmost validation. When I tell people this, they say, "Wyatt?" And I can understand their disbelief in hearing that Wyatt of all people was my lone source of compassion that day. I thought it then, and I think it now: Wyatt was the only logical source. His one and only consistency was the way he constantly contradicted himself and what people expected of him.

Seen by many as a bad seed, he was considered the most likely to start doing drugs in highschool. This was the early 90’s when every other junior high kid was not firing up (at least not at Mount View). It was usually something that popular freshmen got introduced to by seniors who had adopted them into their circle. Many figured Wyatt wouldn’t need much peer-pressure. I disagreed. I genuinely thought Wyatt had his head on solid enough to know that drugs were bad news. Unfortunately, I was wrong in this assessment. Before highschool was out, Wyatt had gotten very much into the party scene. I like to believe that he held out just long enough to show everybody that he was doing it because he wanted to do it, not because he was caving to peer-pressure. I’ve heard rumors that he got into cocaine and various other drugs, but I don’t know if any of the tales are true. Regardless of everything, he remained an honor student and actually left Mount View a year early to study sports medicine at Brandeis University.

After that last year of highschool, I all but lost touch with Wyatt. Most of what I heard about him was from his mom or his brother. After graduating college, he apparently decided to ride around the country on a motorcycle, but then had to come home after only a few weeks because he had run out of money. Next, he was talking about joining the Peace Corps. From what I’ve heard, his parents and others in the community were less than thrilled about his impractical life choice. There were student loans to pay and a degree to put to use. When I heard about his decision third-hand from my own parents, I didn’t bat an eyelash. It just made sense. And as I grapple with my emotions upon hearing about his most recent and tragic news, I realize that even his death... makes sense.

He died far from home and so far, nobody knows how or why. Nobody knows if he died alone, or if he died horribly. But he died for a calling, and I stand forever in awe. He is still the kid who I wanted on my side... who I wanted to be just like. Some things – as they say – never change. I always knew that Wyatt could and would do whatever he decided he was going to do. Beyond that, I knew that he would do it his own way, and by his own rules. He was a war god who never lost a fight, who conquered any problem that he faced. But once again, the giant has fallen, and once again I can only respond with shock. Sadness and concern have not been allowed to creep in. Perhaps I know that Wyatt was never, and will never be totally defeated. Even the redneck that whooped Wyatt’s ass eventually felt retaliation. I think Wyatt even managed to steal that damn John Deer hat in the process. No, Wyatt has not been defeated, even in death. He did things his own way, and somehow, I even have to believe that he wouldn’t have wanted to go out in any other way.