We Worshiped Robin Williams

Christopher Sturdy

in the sanctuary of the Taco Bell parking lot near 85th and Highway 252 accepting our unholy drive-thru communion: a Baja Blast straw slurp, the corner bite of a Cheesy Gordita Crunch, and reading from our sacred scriptures—The Books of Mrs. Doubtfire, 1st and 2nd John Keating, and Sean Maguire. Helloooooooooo! And we’d pantomime pressing our faces into frosting. No matter what anybody tells you, words and ideas can change the world and we’d hoist each other on shoulders to look at our city, our lives from a different angle. And in our innocent boyhood adoration, we’d press each other against the car door whispering, It’s not your fault over and over and over again, as if words were enough to diffuse our present and future lack of [redacted]. 

Another one of the Taco Bell Boys died by suicide, and I’ve already lost count. I can’t give you a number. I can only show you on a color palette which shade of purple my friend’s neck was after they found him wilted in a shed up north. Pantone 2622. A ripe plum left out in a storm. I can identify a fourth generation Ford Mustang GT based on engine rev alone. Each throttle, a chance for my buddy to turn the car off and open the garage door. Eventually, turning 28 became a rite of passage. Those of us who made it celebrated with a night of solitary sobriety featuring Nirvana and Taco Bell Communion. The effervescent comfort of Baja Blast, the cathartic ooze and crack of a Cheesy Gordita Crunch, the only time I can visualize my youth’s laughter being passed around the car like a joint just beginning to canoe like our lives did back at 18. 

On the nights I can’t paint on my best Robin Williams, for fear of masked extroversion revealed as my imposter, I gather as many party favors as possible—oxy and vicodin from bathroom cabinets, lost baggies of dance floor blow, Kirby shaped Molly from a friend—I press my credit card flat crunching the night’s powdery cocktail into soft messy mounds. Cup it in my hands, a midnight tithe, only to leave the party in search of a tree that can keep a secret. Usually a Dogwood or Snow Goose Cherry, the fragrant white flowers remind me of wintry Minnesota parking lots and a loved one’s laughter. Scrape open a grave to bury my pact beneath dirt and self-disdain. These are the nights my body feels permission to [redacted] and once again I can feel a friend push me against a car door and whisper his best Sean Maguire It’s not your fault over and over and over again.

Christopher Sturdy (he/him) is a Minnesotan living in Harlem and teaching high school English in The Bronx. When he’s not teaching, he can be found attempting to keep plants alive or dribbling a soccer ball to see if he's still got it (whatever it is). His poetry can be found in Press Pause Press, Emerge Literary Journal, and Archetype: A Literary Journal.