An obit, of sorts

I was one of about 40 people who received an email that one of us, from way back when, had passed away. He was a boy from the South Plains of Texas who went to college in his home town and then joined the Peace Corps, was sent to Nepal, and stayed to become a Buddhist monk. I didn't know him well, but I felt moved to reach out to the other recipients of the email and tell a little story from 40 years ago:

One night after a party I found myself in that all-night restaurant where everyone used to go and eat a chef's salad to sober up. Bugs, who was living at home and driving the family station wagon, nevertheless found himself at the table with us. He offered a bunch of us a ride back to wherever we'd left our cars. There'd been a light rain, and you know what light rain does to the layer of dust on a Lubbock street. A car comes sliding through an intersection, manages to turn sideways, but doesn't stop its skid until it kisses the driver's side of the Humphries family wagon. The perpetrators speed off into the night and I know Bugs is thinking the same thing I'm thinking, which was "wow, that could have been a lot worse--glad it's over." But the chorus from the back of the station wagon was of a different ilk: "Follow that car! They can't get away with that! Come on Bugs, catch 'em!" And Bugs put the pedal to the metal. We chased them all the way to the street where they lived. They left the car in the driveway and ran into a small wood frame house. "Block the driveway, Bugs," came the cry from the back of the wagon. "We got 'em now." Well, yes we did. We had them. They would have to shoot their way out.

Bugs and I and the other two weakest, meekest, members of the group were left to stand guard while the guys who had insisted on giving chase walked off to find a pay phone to call the authorities. A police cruiser came quickly, and a check of the license plate showed that we had essentially made a citizens' arrest of some folks who were wanted for more than a few crimes. The officers thanked us, and we all went home as if it were all in a night's work. I have no memory of Bugs past that night. For sure, I never knew him by his monastic name of Tsültrim Töndrup. But we took a ride together once. I finished off my remembrance with this:

In my memory, this little story has always been about Bugs. A peace-loving kid, monk-in-the-making, living at home, borrowing the family station wagon on a Friday night, being a nice guy and giving a bunch of drunks a ride back to wherever they had left their cars, caught up in a random hit-and-run accident, nobody hurt, no serious damage to the station wagon -- sudden danger but no harm done -- and then urged into a high-speed chase to a rough part of town and posted to guard duty over a carload of fugitives from the law. And he never said, wait, it's not really my car, I was supposed to be home by now, I'm actually not supposed to be on this side of town. When the boys said go, Bugs went. And when the boys said block the driveway, Bugs blocked the driveway. And when the boys said wait here while we go for help, Bugs waited there. It could have been right there, that night, on the mean streets of Lubbock, that Bugs made a pledge to himself: if I live through this, I'll join the Peace Corps, and if my mom doesn't kill me for smashing up the car, I'll devote myself to a monastic life. RIP Bugs.