1989 School Magazine

"Magbe. But it's too late now, isn't it?" The words were said so softly it was almost a whisper. He looked at me despairingly. Slowty, hesitantly, I reached out and touched his shoulder. He looked down at his hands, too proud to ask. But I knew anywag. With absolute surety I drew him into mg orms and hugged him. "It's alright, you can cry it' you want to," I said sot'tly. "I don't mind. I understand." A great shudder shook his body, and then came a torrent ot' tears. I rocked him back and forth slowly, and stroked his hair and wondered about the man that was Justin Monterey. A man with a ssrcastic edge to euery remark; a man whose constant facial expression uuos a bitter smile: a man with the rore sensitiuity to make emotion into stunning music; a mQn who could cry in the arms of a uirtual stranger- And I knew then what I shoutd haue known bet'ore - that Justin Monterey, inside, uos the same os James Montgomery on the outside. James had a smile that could Iight up a whole room; Justin has on inner glow that could iake people t'eel as it' they were sitting next to a warm log fire, toasting marshmallows - he iust encased himself in a shield ot' granite sarcasm and steely cynicism' But what upset me is welt, was my lack of hearing l listened to his music, acknowledged that he had to haue depth and sensitiuity to compose it, and then proceeded to write him ot't' as a "Bright Young Thing" with looks, brains, popularity' ^on"y and a studied indit't'erence toward the rights and feelings of the rest of humanitg- "I'm sorry," I whispered into his hair. "I didn't listen too well, clrd ll "Listen to what?" he asked into my shoulder. "Your music. I should haue known you weren't like the others. No one can write music the way you do and still be an empty shelt of a person. You're not an eueryday Bright Young Thing. You're as much a t'ake as they are, only in a dit't'erent way." "He'd haue liked gou, if he'd known gou," said Justin "Yes, James. He was nothing like me. He couldn't be hard or tough, even if his life depended on it. I guess his life did depend on it in the end. He couldn't take the harsh superfi- ciaiity o{ real life and so he decided he would be better off without it. Somehow, I wasn't surprised when I found out l guess I always knew that everything would get io him in the lnd and thai he'd try to find an escape route." He paused for a moment and then said, "He'd have liked you because you say what you mean. It's something I always admired about you. When asked a question you'd always give a straight answer, even if it wasn't the answer that everyone wanted to hear." "What do you want to know?" "Euervthing." "Euerything?" he questioned. I could hear the smile in his uoice. "Euerything," I said t'irmlY. suddenly. "James?"

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And he did tell me euergthing. We sat there talking for a long time, and I t'elt closer to James and Justin than I'd euer t'elt with anyone in my entire lit'e. It was a wonderful at'ternoon and a beautiful way t'or Justin to say goodbye to his dearest friend. Slowly he went ouer each memory one by one, until theg'd token their rightt'ul place in a corner of his heart. A place thot would olwags belong to James no matter who Justin became friends with in the t'uture, but a place that wouldn't stop him from being close to another person again. Euentually he fell silent, and I t'elt his breath on my hair and a warm teardrop on my shoulder os sodness ouercame Justin again. But this time it was a dit'ferent klnd of sadness. It was the sodness of saging goodbye to a dear friend rather than the sorrow of abject despair. We sat for awhile, each saying out own fareutells, bracing ourselues to t'ace the outside world again. Euentually Justin rose, and taking my hand led me out ot' the church. Years later I went to a concert that featured Justin's music. The orchestra played a piece simply entitled 'Friend'. It was dedicated to James and it was like all of Justin's music: pas- sionate, honest, alive with colour and emotion. Its effect was the same as always and people left the concert hall dazed with the strength of emotion that Justin was able to evoke in them. It seems, however, that the kind of music Justin composed was the kind that people need to listen to. The kind of mrtsic that brings their subconscious thoughts and emotions to the surface so that they can at least be honest with themselves if no one else. Now, all they have to do is to listen to themselves and each other. Maybe when that happens, the neon signs that made up the Bright Young Things would finally become real people, and Las Vegas could become a large log fire that people could warm themselves by. And maybe people like James wouldn't have to kill themselves to try to escape the blinding light of the fluorescent tubes and the incandescent globes. If we try...who knows what could happen? It's a nice thought anyway. K/RSTEI{ PIETZNER. YEAR 12

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