The Toll

One more, if you will. We remember Andrew’s tirelessness, his energy, his delight at chest-bumping the barricades with a come-at-me, bro grin, right? Right. But it took its toll; it had to. 

He was at my house last summer for a party, and it was a great raucous event – everyone was his friend by the end, if they wanted to be. Andrew stayed late. Everyone else was gone. We were having a last drink in the kitchen, waiting for his cab. He was leaning up against the counter, expressing frustrations about how he was regarded by the establishment right, the difficulty of getting the message through the thick stone walls of the mainstream media, the damned toll of it all sometimes, the discouraging moments when rewards seemed scant.

He could tire, and did; perhaps he had his moments of self-doubt that may have stabbed as deep as any conviction he was on the right path. I remember that conversation, because it was the opposite of everything else he always was – and it made who he was all the more remarkable.