It was a bit more urgent. In the prior case, the call came from his wife. He’d tried to kill himself, albeit poorly. I listened to her freaking out and then asked her to give me an hour.

Some 45 minutes later, I call her back and ask what she’s doing tomorrow at 4 p.m. She seems a bit confused, and I explain that my flight arrives in Charlottesville at that time, and do I need to plan ground transportation, or can she pick me up?

This is one of those things people don’t really know about me. Yes, I’m brusque; yes, I’m an asshole, but if you want someone who has been there and will travel, I’m a useful guy to know.

In that case, I said roughly what a close friend did after my first suicide attempt on encountering him in the basement: “What the fuck were you thinking?”

I’d specifically asked for him to be left unaware of my flight, because it hits a bit harder that way, and his wife still seemed to be surprised I was flying out tonight, and was therefore willing to put up with what I proposed.

I brought a six-pack of Fat Tire; it was not yet nationally distributed, and you could still bring liquids on a plane. So as I was berating him for dragging my happy ass out there, I also handed him a beer and showed of the set of three pint glasses I’d brought (it was a set of four, but one broke in my carryon, and those get sharp).

Anyway, I knew his dad was coming by over the weekend, and I wanted to get there first. His dad was the principal of the local middle school in my first paper’s coverage area. I’d met him a few times; great guy, classic Virginian minus obvious racism. I respected and slightly feared him in our previous interactions (I was, after all, his granddaughter’s godfather).

So I know my role here. I’ve been where he is. And what he needs right now is normalcy. Friends around who won’t judge, who will bring beer and who will be present for what is to come.

We watch some movies in the basement, occasionally hang out on the deck, but it is all a distraction.

His dad arrives, and the conversation goes about as expected: him needing to get his shit together, that sort of thing. He wasn’t an ass about it, but he wasn’t going easy, either.

And when it’s all done, he turns to me and asks what my flight cost. I demur, he pulls out his checkbook, stares me in the eye and says “you flew out here to save my son’s life. Now, how much did the flight cost?” And he cuts a check for that amount (which was a relief on journalism wages and having put it on credit).

My first wife says that instant booking was the moment she knew she wanted to marry me.

Anyway, back to 2026. I’m on the phone with my college roommate, and we’re just shooting the shit. I explain I brought up what the house does for Thanksgiving and basically got “it depends if we’re doing it here or one of our parents.”

He brings up hoping his brother will invite him over and then reveals his mom will be there. In general, this is rather standard for Thanksgiving, but in this case, it is a wall. She did, after all, at the behest of her new husband, falsely accuse my roommate of assault, landing him in jail for nine months as he refused to take plea bargains for something he’d not done.

So, as reasons for not wanting mom around go, this one is pretty solid.

I mention that we’d talked about me visiting sometime this month on his dime and ask if he’d like me to think about that. “You? Here? For Thanksgiving?” His voice cracks. “Yes, I’ll pay for the flight – get a one-way ticket; you don’t need to go home.”

He’s not the sort to break like that. Looks like I can get up there for about $400. “How about I just stick around until after Christmas? The house isn’t going on the market until January.”

This of course requires conversation with my housemates, as I’d really rather not pay rent for a full month I’m not here, but that’s an issue for tomorrow.

Scott’s dad died a few months ago, and unlike what I’ve just gone through, he was living with his dad (who, incidentally, officiated my first wedding), so every day is a living memory. He is in a rut, and he can’t find his way out. I can’t fix this from Texas.

I’ve already started asking about backchannel Portland, Ore., burner connections, as I think that’s the sort of community he needs.

And yes, it’s easy to say that I’m simply imposing my own structure on him, but that’s not true. He literally inherited a woodshop. That’s fucking gold for burners.

He’s not going to be comfortable among them, as I look positively extroverted compared to him, but that’s why I need to be there to make introductions. He’ll soon learn this is the community he’s been looking for: quirky, blunt, no need to deduce subtext, and mutual goals.

I’ve watched him struggle for a while, and I love him.

Our freshman year, I came down to the old house for Thanksgiving, and I fucking hated it. Because it was his domain, and his friends from high school. But 1998 was worse, with my parents flying me down and us going out to dinner.

For 1999, I was back, and I endured an unpleasant drive up to Victoria, B.C., and back to retrieve my mythical Canadian girlfriend just to dispel notions I’d been full of shit at dinner.

When I returned to the Pacific Northwest in 2003, I was back at the old house. By now, Scott had access to prime rib via foodservice, and we ate well.

Point being, Thanksgiving was inadvertently our holiday. So when I heard about his extant option and knew the background, the only thing I could say is “what if we do it?”

And he’s sobbing. It’s so fucking clear how the news of his plans hit him, and I’d be a shitty friend if I didn’t provide a better option. Especially as this is coming out of his inheritance, not mine.

We’ve cohabitated in a far smaller space than his dad’s house. That’s a nonissue. But I’m not only there to be the reason he enjoys the holiday; he can’t find his future, and I think I can help.