One night in early November, I had a friend coming by to have a drink and a cigar and talk. I needed ice, so I ran up to the convenience store. Young guy was sitting out front of the store drinking coffee and having a cigarette. When I came out, he introduced himself as Kevin Urpman, and very politely asked if I could give him a ride into town. It was out of my way, but...what the hell. I called my friend. "Hey, Derek. I'm giving a guy ride into town from the Boise Creek Grocery. I'll be back at the house in 10 minutes."
So I drove Kevin into town. We talked. He was extroverted, chatty, talked quickly and in bursts. I'm thinking to myself, "yeah...junkie." I know the symptoms. I know the smell.
I mentioned I went to high school with some Urpmans. He told me what kin they were to him. When I pulled into the parking lot of a store, I saw him eyeing a half-pack of Marlboro's my brother left on the dashboard of my Suburban. "Take 'em," I said. "Thanks, man," he said.
When I got back to the house, Derek was there. I mentioned the kid's name. Derek graduated high school same year I started. It's a small town. We've known a lot of the same people, even though we didn't know each other until 15 years ago. He knew the Urpmans that I knew.
I never even thought about the encounter again until an hour ago. Derek called. "That was Kevin Urpman you gave a ride to that night I came over, right?" My recollection was fuzzy. "Yeah, I think that was his name."
"He was found dead of an overdose in a Sani-Can on December first."
I can't figure out why I'm sitting here grieving. Not my kid. I haven't encountered anyone from his family in 37 years or more. I spent a grand total of about 6 minutes with him. Gave him my brother's cigarettes. That's it.
And I'm fucking sitting here weeping and telling some friends about a junkie I gave a lift and it's fucking up my morning.
Christ.
