A 50-year friendship ended with my friend’s passing—and a part of me died with him, too

Scott and I died multiple times in our 50-year friendship. But it was the last death, his, that made me cherish each earlier demise.

I met Scott in 7th grade in a backwater suburb in northern California. There were two things I immediately noticed about him: his fancy handwriting, which I stared at meticulously one morning, and his mannerisms. I'd known I was queer for some time, but having an ally at such a young age could only mean survival in a town that placed homosexuality only slightly above pedophilia. I also realized that he wanted to be my friend, unlike the other students who bullied me and called me a "faggot" daily.

From that point on, we were buddies with a more complicated relationship than The Odd Couple's Felix and Oscar. I spent almost every afternoon at Scott’s house with his siblings Linda and Ben and their verbally abusive single mother.

And I loved it.

Neither of us was out of the closet, even with each other. But instead of immersing ourselves in phony girl talk, we got stoned daily and listened to the hard rock sounds of Aerosmith, AC/DC, Van Halen, the Cars, and a San Francisco cult favorite called the Tubes. We were teenage boys in every sense of the word, save having girlfriends or playing sports. There was often a third member of our party, Mike, who, decades later, we discovered we both had crushes on. Mike was straight and popular, and I was always surprised he liked our company. Then again, unlike most of the "in crowd" in our town, he was born and raised kind.

We had several brushes with death as we got older. We drove around San Francisco drunk, nearly getting hit by a car that swerved out of control in front of us. We went sliding down a block of ice at the local country club, with the members in full view behind glass windows and gin martinis. And, almost trampled at rock concerts. Friday nights were of his mother buying us a six-pack of beer, which we'd chase down with bong hits or joints. We even broke into local houses, not to steal, but to enjoy their pools or, at one, a Ping-Pong table that we promptly broke in two. That family never found out it was us because, as we’d say years later, we were invincible.

Emotional death came later. I went to college, where I eventually had many gay actor friends. I didn't pay much attention to Scott, who remained in the Bay Area, and found out later that he’d taken to drugs and alcohol to fight off the terror of his sexuality. Coming out to my mother wasn't nearly as difficult for me as it is for many men. Scott had no one, and he resented me for not being there to help him out. Once, when I came home for the summer, he told me about an episode of Cheers when Sam finds out his old baseball buddy is gay.

I knew it was a hint for conversation, but I ignored it.

I never did talk with Scott about coming out, which, in retrospect, seems absurd. After I moved to New York and got my first boyfriend, we switched to being two gay friends. While writing this, I realized that there was always a river between us that kept us from becoming as close as we should have been. Maybe Scott reminded me of how much I hated my hometown, how much I hated my youth…, and maybe how much I hated myself. Like everyone we grew up with, Scott came with a “Childhood Memories” stamp on his forehead, and I only wanted to escape mine.

The thing is, he was the best thing about that world.

Scott was jealous of me for acting, writing professionally, and moving to New York. He tried to follow whatever I did but seemed to need help finding his footing. I avoided him for too long because of it. I was jealous of his ability to make friends with anyone; after becoming a cop in San Francisco, he became a celebrity bodyguard and knew everyone. He also made tons of money and traveled the world while I struggled with finances. When I started drinking heavily in the ’90s, I was jealous that Scott seemed to have that part of his life under control.

I never told Scott I was proud of him. He never told me he was proud of me. But, like true friends, we’d occasionally meet up and instantly become kids again with long phone calls that revived every childhood adventure and hours discussing music. Scott died of a heart attack this past May at his home in Palm Springs. I found out a month later after I texted him something; I got a text back from his friend, giving me the news.

Even in death, there was a gap.

I didn’t get to go to the memorial, tell him I loved him, or say goodbye. We’d both been in Puerto Vallarta at the same time early in the month. I was too lazy to connect; maybe he was, too.

Because we always think there’s another day, another phone call trip down memory lane.

I have a playlist of songs and artists, half of which we rocked out to at concerts, that makes me think of him. Each brings back a slice of Scott and youth, haunting me like ghosts. I wanted to share my memories with Scott’s younger sister, Linda, whom I was always close to, only to find out she had a terminal brain disease and (to spare her) had not been told of her brother’s passing. She recently died and was the last survivor of his family.

I am alone in this, and it feels like death.

David Toussaint is a four-time author, professional screenwriter, playwright, and actor who lives in New York. He is currently working on a novel and screenplay. You can reach him on Threads at @DavidRossToussaint.

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