Ink Fades Slower Than Memory

A bearded drunk eyed the inside of my left arm as I entered a cramped, low-ceilinged kitchen in a sticky-floored Minneapolis party house. He gestured at my tattoo with his non-beer hand.

My Tattoo

“What’d you get that when you were eight?” The hammered but affable wiseass cracked to scattered laughs at the sight of the bright green ‘1-Up’ mushroom occupying that dermal real estate.

I couldn’t blame him. Even the rounded nature of the tattoo itself reflects its lack of “edge.” My only tat, I expected the unaccompanied, quickly identified childhood symbol of life sprung anew might seem an odd choice to some for a 20 year old man in 2005. It was, after all, a decade past the era of side-scroller video games like the one that popularized my adopted symbol: Nintendo’s Mario Bros.

Unoffended but taken aback--to this day the man's joke at my tattoo's expense is the only such I recall being spoken to my face--my brain, swimming already in the dully-giddy sensation of too many cigarettes on too much booze, set immediately and unintendedly a course back through the events that led me to a tattoo parlor a few months prior.

“Ten actually,” I joked back reflexively as the memories rolled in, “My folks made me hold out for double digits.”

* * * * *

“I’m going to kill myself today,” Marcus said matter-of-factly.

Blue-eyed and blonde with sincere if angular features and an approachable demeanor, our close friends and I would sometimes jest about how it'd be hard to find a more stereotypically Scandinavian-looking guy.

Marcus

Standing just an arm's reach away in the 8’ x 10’ closet masquerading as my dorm room he may as well have been a galaxy away. He thought I’d understand, but I didn’t. I protested nondescriptly, too aghast and unprepared to adequately rebuff his monumental proclamation with anything beyond a stuttered, "I... can't let you do that, man."

He countered, calmly, “Death is like a zero. Blank. Not bad, not good. Just… nothing. Right now, for me, being alive is a negative two.”

Terror-struck, my throat tensed uncomfortably as I searched for words. Though he possessed a notably quick wit and rarely lacked for a sense of humor, this kind of nonsense-free, logical absolutism in problem solving exemplified Marcus to me in the utmost. It was obviously a position he'd thought through.

* * * * *

In the fall of 2004, in our first few months at the University of Minnesota, Marcus and I were routinely engaging in some of the most exciting, meaningful conversations of my life to that point. We discussed politics and current events--he was the only 18 year old I’ve ever met with a subscription to Foreign Affairs--as well as intriguing matters of science and philosophy.

We relished the opportunity to explore our perceptions and hone our opinions. Doing so on the campus of a large university--whether in the crisp autumn air on the banks of the Mississippi river behind Coffman Union or in the bustling dining center of Centennial Hall during one of our frequent lunch discussions--gave our talks a feeling of added import and seriousness. We were college men now, after all.

Just over a month into our freshman campaign Marcus confided in me: He’d been feeling depressed for some time, though in our years of friendship I’d seen nothing to indicate this. He was routinely cutting himself, I learned. In describing this to me he seemed more embarrassed than anything, though he’d begun attending counseling. Sensing the depth of my concern he assured me he’d continue seeing a counselor and asked me not to tell anyone.

For several weeks while he attended sessions we went about our first semester. In our massive Introduction to Microeconomics lecture--the only course Marcus and I had together--we raced, as we had in high school, to be first to complete and hand in our midterm. We played Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas religiously in our dorms and continued meeting for lunch.

We discussed bits of what he’d talked about with his counselor and he seemed to be making clear progress understanding himself. He didn't appear to lose interest in the many topics that had always fascinated him. He attended class and took notes. I was introduced to Ryan--Marcus's long-haired, spectacle-sporting roommate with a penchant for wearing feathered boas--as well as other new friends he'd made in his dorm. By any measure visible to me it appeared he was assimilating normally.

* * * * *

It was especially troubling in light of these things to see him so resolute in the decision to end his life. Fighting back stinging tears I repeated that I could not simply allow him to go through with it, as he had hoped I would. He reasoned that, after the extent to which our mutual understanding had grown in recent months, I was the only person he could inform about this decision. In his brain, I was meant to get it.

After some serious unease as it became clear we'd have to disagree on the matter, Marcus wanted to leave. Unsure what else to do, I managed to get him to promise he wouldn't act until we’d discussed it further. I believed him in the moment, but knew I couldn't trust him in his mental state.

I called my mom. Despite Marcus's explicit wishes, I'd let her know just after learning myself about his cutting and depression. He badly wished to keep this from his parents--and my mom would tell them, I knew--yet I’d needed someone to confide in myself and understood the importance of getting others involved. I'd kept her updated on the details Marcus gave me about his counseling and how he felt, but this call was different and she knew.

Our mothers wasted no time making the 25 mile trek west from our hometown of Hudson, WI. I exchanged texts with Marcus to keep his attention. He was going to grab a few things at Target before heading back, he said, so I made a plan to meet him outside his dorm. Having picked me up, our moms dropped me off there and waited.

Middlebrook Hall

Outside the entrance, I nervously contemplated how best to approach the upcoming conversation, deciding on brief and direct. When he arrived we took the elevator to his 9th floor room where I followed him inside and, after setting down his shopping bag, he turned to me.

"I know you thought I'd understand," I started immediately, voice trembling but resolute, "but the fact is I can't let you kill yourself. I care too much about you and so do a lot of other people. Our moms are outside downstairs. Let's just all go talk about this."

He shot me a look of serious betrayal. "You're a jerk," he said.

* * * * *

As Marcus and I got into my mother's car, an anxious silence lingered inside. We made our way to the university's on-campus health center. After accompanying them into the lobby, my mom and I left Marcus and his mother alone.

Fairview Medical Center

After a day or two, I spoke to him on the phone in the hospital. He was under heavy observation. Despite this, he didn't seem particularly down. Along with his roommate and a couple of friends, I was allowed to check him out of the next evening and take him to dinner. Over Chinese, Marcus described a battery of personality and aptitude tests he'd gone through, including an IQ test, mentioning he was hesitant to see the results.

"What if I'm not as smart as I thought? It's a scary prospect," he explained.

We let Marcus guide the discussion. The group made small talk about classes, and how the weather getting cold would mean pain-in-the-ass walks across a large campus. We talked about the renewal of Family Guy and a new website for college students called Facebook. Every so often, he'd bring up something we’d all been too afraid to ask about directly.

"When I first went in, I thought I was just depressed," he told us. "Now I know it's a lot more than that."

He stopped there and, though I know we'd all have liked him to elaborate, none of us mustered the courage to push him for more. After dinner, we walked Marcus back to the hospital and went our separate ways across campus.

I spoke with him again on the phone two days later. He was still being held for evaluation but again seemed in decent spirits. I asked him to inform me as soon as he was released so we could hang out and generally get back into the stride of a still-exciting new life in college. The coming week was shortened due to Thanksgiving and I wondered if he'd be out in time to carpool home.

* * * * *

The Wednesday before Thanksgiving was a clear, cool day. One of my classes was called off and I skipped my economics lecture figuring Marcus wouldn't be there anyway. I hadn't heard anything from him in a couple of days. Not wanting to put any additional pressure on him, I waited instead for him to contact me. Needing to turn in a timesheet for my campus job as a video technician before my parents picked me up that afternoon, I made the twenty minute walk across the Mississippi to the other side of campus and up to the top floor of the Rarig Center, out of which my job was based.

Rarig Center

The thick-walled, brick-and-concrete building completely blocked my cell phone signal, so though I never received a call I had a voicemail when I left. It was Marcus’s roommate Ryan. The clear devastation in his voice told me everything. Rarig Center was very close to Middlebrook Hall, Marcus's dormitory, and before the short voicemail could finish I turned and headed that direction.

As I came within eyeshot of the building a growing crowd of students constrained by yellow police tape lining the perimeter confirmed what I’d suspected. A numb shock consumed me as I moved through the crowd of people, letting them know he was my friend so they'd let me pass. Overhearing me, a journalist tried to get an interview, but I couldn't have stopped even if it hadn’t been the last thing I wanted to do.

I made my way to the building where I pleaded to be let in. A woman in her fifties identifying herself as Marcus's counselor approached me from inside and took me to an office where her words solidified the surreal. Marcus had leapt from his window, falling to his death.

* * * * *

My mom, whom I'd alerted through heavy tears on the walk back across campus, met me to take me home. Crawling in pre-holiday rush hour traffic, calls and texts from new college friends rolled in. I'd gotten close with several guys and girls in my dorm and had let some of them know about Marcus's hospitalization. Having heard the quickly-travelling news of a suicide on campus they’d connected the dots and reached out. I was grateful to see such an outpouring of support, particularly since most of these people hadn't known me very long.

This goodwill did little to ease the pain, however, as inevitable questions crept in: When had he gotten out? Why hadn't he contacted me? Had he gone to class that morning? Had I skipped my last chance to see him? While logically I knew I'd tried to help along the way, I struggled to escape the pitfalls of wish-thinking and regret.

The heavily-attended funeral was largely a blur in my grief. Marcus's parents had asked me to act as a pallbearer. I was struck by the lightness of the coffin as the other men and I carried it down a short flight of stairs and into the waiting hearse. Graveside only family and a few close friends gathered. The weighty finality of the moment hung chokingly in my throat as the tear-blurred image of the coffin--covered in the Sharpie-written words of love and support of those who knew him--disappeared into the cold ground.

* * * * *

Back in the sticky-floored kitchen this stream of memories threatened to become unbearable before a cold breeze through a patio door pulled me back into the moment. I made my way outside where the cool fall evening provided reprieve from the muggy, stale air of an over-packed house party. I lit a cigarette.

Exhaling, I brushed my right index fingertip along the outline of the mushroom and reminisced as to why I’d chosen it to memorialize my friend. Having decided shortly after his death on the general idea of a tattoo, I took months choosing a symbol. Careful to avoid anything too obvious for when I felt like sidestepping the full back story, I knew I wanted something capable of standing alone while reminding me of Marcus and signaling hope for the future.

And then I remembered this:

Marcus made this with friends as part of a speech class in high school. His gaming talent and perfectionism made the Super Mario Bros. walkthrough a natural choice for a demonstration video. Spontaneously recounting this with new college friends at one of the spring's first Twins games, I knew I'd found my symbol. I had it inked that summer.

Finishing my cigarette and feeling ready to get back inside, I glanced again quickly at the inside of my left forearm, smiled, and made my way to the keg.

Jeff Neuman