in dreams they come... with pain

Losing a loved one is bad enough. Losing a loved one and finding out about it at 7:30 AM on a sleepy Sunday morning is horrible. January 20, 2008, was the Sunday morning. Sipping coffee and looking over some e-mail. The phone rings and it is my father. His tone is panic. Urgency is in his voice. It seems a woman with the last name of "Wood" called my brother's home to report that my oldest son, John, had been transported to the East Baton Rouge Coroner's Office and morgue after expiring from a drug overdose while at the Baton Rouge Marriot Hotel.

My first feelings were of disbelief. But then my gray matter kicked in to suggest that Johnny's girlfriend lives in Baton Rouge, so it could very well be a genuine event. We began calling every number we could trying to find him. Pierce didn't answer his phone. Johnny wasn't answering his phone, either. Minutes seemed like hours. Finally a call came though on my cell from Johnny himself. Immediate relief came over me. But Johnny's good news was shortlived, as he informed us that it looked like Pierce may have fallen victim to a similar fate, only at the New Orleans Marriot downtown.

My heart sank lower than it could have and we waited. we communicated with friends and family, using the time to reassure each other that nothing possibly could have happened to Pierce. He had been at the hotel with friends, in town for the Krewe of Vieux parade from Louisiana State University. He had just begun to get settled in his new apartment. He had the world at his feet and a wonderful plan for living. This just could not be happening. It HAD to be a mistake.

I paced and sat at the computer and spun, back and forth in my leather chair. Watching the clock, my glare wore holes in the surface of the numbers as the second hand called it's, "tick, tick, tick", in an almost mocking sound. The minutes grew to hours, as friends trickled in to comfort and console; to offer some small ray of hope that they themselves had no faith in. Shock was setting in and it was no gentle friend. Calls of inquiry to the Marriot Hotel were politely but firmly dismissed. They would not even tell us if Pierce had been in a room there. Of course, we knew he had the room... we knew.

We called the New Orleans Police Department. That was like talking to the fitting room attendant at Super Wal-Mart on Saturday during Christmas. It was MARDI GRAS. They had drunks vomiting all over themselves and fun bag tourists pissing in the middle of the street for the cameras of (insert reality/cops show name here) camera crew filming the debauchery. And don't forget those balconies. God help the poor dumb ass whose drunken stupor allowed him to fall on the street because the titties he saw were only inches away. That was the important people the cops had to watch. To Hell with a grief striken and confused family.

Next was the Coroner. This too, was fruitless. The nightmare continued as all we could do was hope that some caring law enforcement or public offfical would have pity on a family on the edge and tell us what was happening. Don't count on it. They could take lessons in public service from some of the cadavers they've been charged with.

All of the just mentioned entities were as cold and callous as they could be. We were bothering them interfering with them doing their jobs. Guess what, Sock Monkeys? That IS your job! helping those in trouble or distress. Enforcing the law. We got jaded and frozen people who I hope never have to search for a relative who has met with misfortune. Bastards, all. Don't worry about talking to the people whose lives have just been pulled out from underneath them. Not to mention the poor soul who is in their command. Their, (ALL of the agencies aforementioned), ideal interaction would be, Thank you for calling the New Orleans (PD, Coroner, Feds, etc.) voice interaction system. To continue in English, press "1"; To return to your cocktail, press ***

• You pressed "1". In English, here are your selections:
• Press "2" to attempt to speak to a duty officer. We call this the "Scooby" option. People selecting this option are told, "Rotsa Ruck". There is another option. Let's say "2A". With "2A" you get an officer who actually gives you an NOPD Item Number... And nothing else.With that Item No. you are entered in the world of leaving countless numbers of messages to law enforcement people who won't call back, EVER.
  
  Surely they have a big board with names of the people who call. They throw darts at the names in random. If your Item No. is hit, BINGO, you might get a call. But don't hold your breath.

• Press "3" to get the person who will tell you that they care, but there's just nothing they can do to help and no information they can give, but if you need some more help, please call again.
• Press "4" to speak with the Weekend Crew at the Coroner's Office. "Hello You've reached the Coroner's Office. Our hours are from 9-5, Monday thru Friday. If you've reached this recording, then please try again during normal hours".
• Press "5" to speak with the SHHH! feds SHHH! These guys are SO super secret that they have earned the right to be SO disgustingly rude, so completely callous and so self-important, that their entire system should be revamped with the victims and families in mind.

Ripley's Fun Facts: SINCE JANUARY 20, 2008, I HAVE NOT RECEIVED ONE SINGLE SOLITARY COMMUNICATION FROM ANYONE IN PUBLIC OR LAW ENFORCEMENT SERVICE...

on July the 2nd,  i was finally contacted by the United States Attorney's Office - details are on the entry post of the same date. thank you, Mr. Quinlan...

Jesus, do you hear that silence? I am his natural father. Not step. Not mother's fiance'. I am fifty percent responsible for bringing Pierce into this world and since he dies, NO ONE has contacted me. Of this exact thing I caution you, parents who may be reading these lines. The bottom line is that they (some) don't care.

And if you're a divorced parent and not chosen to get the goods from the "authorities", you're stonewalled even worse. The information, if any, is filtered and disseminated and may even be completely cut off!

I guess it's really because Pierce was something to the effect of "not very close" to me or "our side of the family".
 

Pierce and Jester being "not close", while planning paintball strategy...

end part with note... i have made some references that will piss some people off. .. what can I say? i may revisit this or I may not. but it seems my entire existence is tied in with it. and the pain is unbearable. it is supposed to subside with time. but you know something? when you wake in the wee hours of the morning with nothing in particular on your mind, and the thought of him hits you, when does the adrenaline sickness that hits your stomach go away? when do the tears stop when you hear a song by an artist that he loved? when do you stop shaking your head to clear the fact that you just can't accept that he is gone forever? this, I wonder every single day as my tears fall...