Rising from the Dead

A few years ago, shortly after returning home after being away for an extended absence, I was standing at a crosswalk when I happened to look up and recognize an old acquaintance. James had been a friend of sorts during my high school days starting freshman year. Neither of us was popular back then, which meant that we had been partners for school projects on more than one occasion when he and I were the only two students remaining without a teammate. We had been quite different, but we were similar in at least that one respect. 

James had always been a decent guy-- though I never could say I knew him especially well. I wasn't even entirely sure he would recognize me as he approached the crosswalk I was waiting at, yet this doubt would soon be erased when, as he approached closer, I looked again to see him staring at me with the most beguiling expression on his face that I could not guess what it portended. It seemed to me a mix of surprise, shock, and-- was it sadness? Grief? His mouth was agape and I began to grow increasingly concerned. At best, I thought we'd enjoy some idle chit-chat, catching up awkwardly and clumsily as we made our way across the street on whatever errands we were on that day. But by the look of James, I could not guess what possible conversation his stare would lead to. 

At last, while still standing some distance away from the crosswalk, he called my name out loud, questioning-- as if in disbelief. I don't remember word for word what our conversation was, but here's roughly what it was as best I can recall: 

"Hey, James," I said, confirming I was who he thought I was. He came closer, and it looked like his eyes had flushed red with tears. 

"I can't believe it," he said-- perhaps a few times. "I can't believe you're here."

His intensity was unnerving, so I did my best to chuckle and hopefully soften whatever sudden emotion had burst up in my old casual high school chum. "Yeah, been away for a while. Was in California,"

He didn't seem to hear me or understand-- which made me confused. He said something like, "What happened to you?" James also kept looking away and back at me in a way that had started to annoy me, because I didn't know what the meaning behind it was 

"I just left to try it out and see how I'd do. Things didn't work out so I'm back," I said, probably not concealing my agitation. Why was he acting this way toward me? But then he said it, all at once, because how else do you say something like this to somebody you happen into on the street: 

"I thought you were dead!" 

"What? Dead?"

"Yeah. I heard you were dead!"

Now I did laugh. I was not dead. 

"Where did you hear that?"

"I-- I don't know, now. This was years ago. Back in senior year..."

Senior year? Back when we had still been in school together. 

"That's weird," I think I must've said. But he elaborated further: 

"I heard that you were decapitated,"

"Decapitated?!"

"Yeah. You got in some kind of car accident in a convertible, and you rolled the car or something, and you were decapitated. I swear, we even had some kind of like memorial for you at school one day, out at the flag pole."

I shook my head. Decapitated. But just as I was feeling at my most annoyed, or-- it's hard to explain, maybe even feeling defensive about not being decapitated-- James embraced me.

"I can't believe it," he said, sounding relieved-- like my fabricated death had disquieted some part of him for years. "I'm so glad to see you."

I remember feeling strangely relieved, too. 

"Thanks, man, but I'm okay,"

"Yeah," he said, and let go of me. We had missed the crossing light so one of us probably hit the button again. I think it was on me, the Lazarus of the day, to lighten the mood a bit at that point. 

"So how's life been treating *you*?" He laughed, and we both did. He didn't say much about how things had been going for him. Instead, he started talking right away about his science fiction novels, and then I remembered-- he used to print out pages of his sci-fi novel to give to me to read to tell him what I thought about it. I had forgotten about all of that, but his big thing-- the whole time I had known him in school-- was his science fiction story. Even reading the pages he printed out for me, he'd tell me the whole story he had planned out. It was going to be a series, maybe a quadrilogy or something-- and that he had actors picked out for the movie adaptations, and ideas for spin-off novels, and how everything was going to come together. He talked about it like we were still in Biology, and after years of having this science fiction story absent from my conscience mind, it all suddenly came back at once.

He wrote a little more but gave up on it a few years after graduation. But he still thinks about getting back into it again-- he had come up with some really exciting changes to the story since I had heard it last. 

The light changed, and we crossed. I nodded along and asked polite questions based on the little that I was now remembering and getting a lot of it wrong, but James didn't seem to mind-- he was excited talking about his story again. We stopped at the other side of the street, neither of us sure which way the other was going but feeling the exchange was now already over. 

"It's just... So weird seeing you. I thought you were dead."

"Nope. Still alive."

"That's amazing."

"I'm going this way,"

"Okay, I'm that way."

"Okay, well, it's good seeing you, James. Hope everything else is going well for you."

I don't know why but I got the sense things weren't great. Should I have followed up? Was he good? But he nodded-- we shook hands-- we laughed again about the whole thing and said goodbye. Waved, walking backward for a few steps before turning. The entire thing couldn't have been much longer than ten minutes. 

For me, it was weird enough. But from James' perspective-- an old friend had been risen from the dead. I think I remember feeling pretty good the rest of that day. I haven't seen James since then. It's been a few years now, and I hope he's okay.