My Friend Jane

Transparency for me, has always lain the foundation for hope.  Without truth, there is no good progress, and no lessons emerge from any of our life experience. 

Jane lives in Corfu.  She courageously departed from our little corner of Chapel Hill NC for that strange new part of the world almost forty years ago.  I recently had the pleasure of reuniting with her for the first time when she trekked to the US for a family wedding.  Albeit only a couple of memory-drenched hours, beholding Jane's countenance after all these decades brought immediate awareness that what initially drew us into close friendship still lives on...regardless of years and miles.  

As we shared events current and historical, I found it remarkable that those memories I have held all these years were not aligned with Jane's.  No matter...except one, and that is how we initially met, which Jane has been recounting through the years with imagined clarity.  One of us was hitch hiking on Glenwood Ave. and one of us pulled over to pick up the other one, and from there a grand friendship flourished.  

I was delighted to find Jane on Facebook a couple of years ago.  Once reconnected, she and I poured gap-closing now-and-then details, effortlessly as if it were the month after we had lost connection fourty years ago.  At the time, it was sufficient to have her as a Facebook friend, banter exchanges fortifying our renewed connection.  It wasn't until she came to visit this Spring that I really understood what great friends we were and continue to be.

What draws people to each other?  Circumstances, yes...but what creates the desire to share more than passing dialogue with another person?  The simple answer would be found in similarity of dispositions and interests.  Certainly Jane and I were free spirits, living as intellectual hippies (to be carefully distinguished from the grunge hippies of yore,) whose attire, jargon and hair suited the lifestyle quite well.  What we found in each other was the spirit of adventure, believing at that time that a brave new world was beckoning us to show up and be counted among the superlatives.  We lived the part, and we believed wholeheartedly that as we sailed through an adventure devoid of threat or harm we would find only bigger and better pursuits...growing ourselves and eventually finding us having arrived at our cosmic destinies.

Upon detailed introspection we determined that it was I who picked Jane from the roadside, instantly agreeing to transport her all the miles to her intended destination: ECU.  I had planned on returning to my parents' home and was en route after dropping my mother off at the airport when I saw Jane there, on the side of the road, thumb pointed heavenward on the end of a tie-dyed sleeve.  Long, massive thick black hair in lovely curls that cascaded down past her shoulders almost obscured the rest of her.  I was doubly impressed to behold a young woman (roughly my age) hitch-hiking alone.  Absent were thoughts to hinder my relief effort, as I only saw a new friend, making her way toward my stopped vehicle.

It was probably right after she told me she was planning to wind up in Greenville (and I had agreed to drive the distance) that she offered me something hallucinogenic.  LSD.  Having completed my first year at art school, the drug proliferated among the best of the best.  I am not saying that I was a chronic drug user, but I had experienced a few hallucinatory occasions.  I liked the drug's effects of color and life-giving force to all things, animate and inanimate.  It produced in the user a completely new  consideration of all established concepts. And we were working to defeat "the establishment."  And here my new friend was offering some to me.  Without hesitance I swallowed the tiny piece of paper which bore a small brown dot, depressed the accelerator of my parents' teal blue Impala, cranked up the AC and headed for highway 64 out of /Raleigh.

Conversation and scenery both in and out of the car are now absent from memory until the point where I turn toward Jane to tell her that I don't think I can drive any further.  I am having trouble at that point even driving.  Although I know I must make it home, I recall a friend who lives in the vicinity whom I could visit a while until the peak experience is gone.  Jane graciously accepts the limits of my service, sharing goodbyes as she exits my car. 

My solo journey minus my new friend as passenger was wrought with confusion: There were many houses along those country roads that looked exactly like my friend's, and the one I eventually determined to actually be hers (enough to park and visit the house) rendered disaster.  After only a couple of steps from my parked car I was met by what seemed to be a herd of unhappy wild dogs whom I'd awakened from under a junked car beside the house.  My friend did not have dogs, and would not own such vicious mangy-looking mongrels, so I flew back to the safety of the driver's seat, now knowing that a long trip to Raleigh was my immediate mandate.

God protected this young girl as she winded her way through country roads, finally finding herself on a four-lane highway.  (Four lanes were the super highways of the day.) But finding a highway offered little peace, as it was unclear where this highway led, and in which direction one would proceed if one were wanting to go to Raleigh. 

I was thoroughly relieved to find a gas station right on the highway. I parked and entered for directions to my destination.  Still greatly under the influence, I had difficulty understanding the directions coming from the cashier and a few folks in line who were (in retrospect) all telling me to get back onto the highway with a left turn, and I would find myself in downtown Raleigh in 40 minutes.  Seeing my frustration, one kind man told me that he and his family were actually going to Raleigh and that I could just follow them. 

This should have presented the end of my worries, however from the point where I resumed my journey behind a station wagon transporting the all American family and their dog, I had to constantly remind myself that I was to keep that thing in front of me always in my sight.  That thing being their car, and their car being my sole hope of ever finding my way home again.

Good follower, LSD-me, unaware of time and space.  After what seemed to be a lengthy trek, panic overtook me when the other half of my convoy suddenly pulled over to the side of the road.  I followed suit, now seeing the father walking in the direction of my car.  Thanking God for electric locks, I pressed the master button hard and realizing that he had something he wanted to say to me, I imagined an LSD nightmare with  a serial killer having misguided me.  I barely cracked my window to hear him say, "We're in Raleigh now, in fact we've been in Raleigh for quite a while and this is our house."

Jane safely arrived, enjoyed and returned from her visit to ECU, and once she was back at UNC, we became inseparable.  (At some lucid point we'd exchanged contact information.)  She has asked me to write down some of my memories of those days and times, and so I offer this, the first of many.


I'll always wonder how I might have differently viewed life, had I not been generationally-influenced in this fashion.

Willis E. Coley at Work as a News Reporter

I still love Willis and will always miss him. He was the most entertaining person I've ever met. His voice is in the background, as he reports on the concert. Gosh, there are too many sides to everything in this life. 

http://youtu.be/y8FEwptmZBc

Military Man Commits Suicide in Albemarle County Jail

http://www.newsplex.com/home/headlines/127316543.html

SPLIT DECISION
Tricia Cotton Dean
July 21, 2012

As a lifelong friend of Willis' parents, I knew a different Willis whose chart-topping intelligence mostly prevented his complete immersion into what we would deem as normal society.  I am shocked to learn of the atrocities which overcame him and ruined life for him.  I do not seek to justify such horrific thinking and those who both need and feed on such demonic imaginings and acts.  I write to say that for the first time in my life, I am utterly torn to learn of Willis' fate.  The internet, rife with condemnations, expressions of gratitude that he is dead, revulsion and rage are certainly not unwarranted, as I too am horrified by a mental image of those engaged in child pornography as anything but beastly monsters. But that's not the Willis I knew and loved.

Thankfully, the other Willis, and became the beneficiary of his zany and brilliant form of entertainment--which he lived. Sure, I did observe his tendency to be obsessive about anything in which he was currently interested.  Those interests were always highly well-conceived and parlayed into hilarity for the Coley family and friends.  Willis' passion was apparent, every time you encountered him.  Looking back, I now feel that he was haunted by his rapid-fire brain.  It just never provided him with peace.
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I was a pleasantly surprised when I learned of his military appointment within special services, but more so grateful that Willis had found such a  high quality of employment in an elite field, one that he had long envisioned and frequently demonstrated in his antics and conversation. I was proud of him for exhibiting the structure necessary for such an important job.

Willis, with his wealth of spontaneous vignettes made each visit to the Coley house a true joy.  Much money is paid by the public to attend such level of entertainment onstage.  He was THAT good.  I don't think he could control it very easily. And I also believe that there was something Willis was missing...You could call it emotional maturity or tag it as a type of delayed development, but there was a part of Willis that never crossed over from childhood into adolescence.  And this, I believe, was at least part of his undoing.

Willis had managed to capture the heart and attention of a well known and respected public official who devoted time to Willis, whose own father had committed suicide upon discovering that his battle with cancer had been unsuccessful, this occurring when Willis was around 7 years of age.  The only other adult male relative in Willis’ life was his uncle (dad’s brother,) who died suddenly within a couple years following Willis’ dad.  His “outside” relationship offered what I saw as a great opportunity for Willis to do “man things.”  Willis shared stories of this person often, and seemed fascinated by the frequent deer hunting excursions afforded him by this relationship.  I believe he dearly respected this mentor, and it served as a good thing.

My first encounter with Willis occurred after I had moved back to Raleigh and was attending a party at a mutual friend’s house, just a few doors up from the Coley household.  I vaguely remember an excited and exuberant (lone) young kid bursting on the scene, making a lasting impression.  He was definitely an attention-getter.  There was something about Willis that was passionate and endearing.  Memory now faded, I remember party guests discreetly sharing that the reason for Willis' visit now was to report that  he’d cooked a can of Raid in the microwave to see what would happen.  “What a time that boy that boy must give his mother,” and  other such (uninformed) pronouncements, mostly from folks who did not have children.

I resolved then to stay away from Willis, however his engaging personality won me over on my first visit to see his mother at their (lovely) home.  He was delightful, in a world that’s mostly gray.

In many ways, Willis was always serving up an unending and delightful rendition of "live" SNL. Surely all the antics and manic venues of Willis’ imagination were products of his constantly pinging mind. In a series of always-changing vignettes, Willis delivered his audiences first class comedy theatre, played out by a host of "regular" characters.  One of my favorites was “The Story Lady,” where he would pose as an old woman in a grey wig and old housedress as he’d weave compelling stories from a rocking chair. The Story Lady's lap was stereotypically adorned with one of those handmade 70s-styled afghan blankets, under which she brandished a real looking but toy 9mm Glock, which the Story Lady would be forced to pull out in an effort to return decorum to the "classroom," and command the full attention of her "students." Sometimes the stories were contrived, and sometimes they were delivered using props like picture books. Just writing about these now forces me to chuckle again and miss them. Willis was a sure thing: a full-on, knee-slapping laughter-getter, throughout every single production.

On the occasion of a few visits, I would pull into the Coley driveway, exit my car and have traversed the walkway leading to the front door only to realize a hidden Willis ensconced within the house-hugging shrubbery which ran the length of the house front.  He might be fully suited-up  in army camouflage, his face painted to match.  Willis was always interested in the army.  This was Willis’ “covert operations” mode/character, so he would spring forth from the bushes suddenly and delightfully, always smiling.  Willis was always smiling and happy.  Or at least it seemed that he was always happy.

Willis’ room was home to a large white rat, comfortably residing in a huge glass aquarium in which Willis had created a very lifelike army battle zone, complete with a “rat-sized” Hummer, in which the rat would actually sit from time to time--right in the driver's seat.

The family’s kitchen pantry door sported a life-size rendering in pencil and colored pencil, of Willis, by Willis.  It was something I'd buy. It’s crudeness was something to celebrate, and I loved it.  There was real talent exhibited, strange and raw.  It was devoid of all pretense. And so was Willis. When his mother sold the house, I urged her unsuccessfully to take that door with her. I would have, had it been mine.  She decided to cover Willis’ self portrait with two coats of enamel. I'm thinking that she, at least on a few occasions has regretted not taking that door in her departure. Willis demonstrated his uniquely talented difference in pretty much every undertaking. Willis was always an artist. It's a shame that the world at large never got to experience this Willis.

I wonder if the acquisition of a police scanner heralded what would lead to the ultimate preoccupation of Willis’ mind.  Once Willis had his own police scanner, it seemed that he became chronically occupied with eavesdropping on all the personal and private information being relayed via a variety of sources, such as 911 and law enforcement agencies.  I recall joining the family in the living room as to eavesdrop on police calls, women and men arguing or pleading for one to take the other back, threats, inappropriate plans being made, banking information being relayed, fire calls, ambulance calls, you name it.  I believe that Willis developed a certain cynicism from listening to the troubles, secrets and emergencies that endlessly streamed from the unit’s speakers--and who wouldn't?

Willis and I were cohorts in irony a few times, and it was always wonderful to play out these typically awkward and depressing life scenarios using a comedic slant. I was to see him a couple more times, after our families had gone on in different directions. The last time I saw him, Willis eagerly and gladly helped me with a heartbreaking family situation of my own regarding one of my children, dedicating his full attention and resources to the crisis until he had done all that was possible.

So I now read the news of Willis’ suicide accompanied by stories I know are true but can’t fathom, and it all is heart-wrenching. So many “Jennys” out there are suffering ungodly acts  as I sit comfortably with laptop on lap drinking my favorite coffee and feeling like it’s going to be a lazy Sunday. And missing Willis, yes, I’m not glad he’s dead. He must have felt more alone than any of us were able to detect. To have migrated such a distance from his good home and family, he must have been tormented in a way “regular” people will never near. 

And do I think Willis was a monster?  No.  But I now know Willis was plagued by something BIG. Personal demons only Willis knew...or didn’t.  Do I believe that there would come a time when Willis’s photo and video obsession would have migrated over into an activity?  I don’t think so, but then again, thrill seeking must have something new upon which it can feed. Enough exposure to anything will eventually render it boring.  We'll never know whether or not Willis would have proceeded into acting out his fantasies--and it doesn't matter now. I understand that all participants in pornography, both passive and active, involving children and adults, must be safely segregated from society. It's been determined that once the Pandora’s Box is opened, once the interest is sparked, full rehabilitation is tenuous.  I will always hurt deeply for our Willis.  While I hate what took his life, I knew  and loved his good side.

And so, Willis showed the world that he did have a conscience, a desire to please others, and more than one dimension of personality and values.  Maybe all pedophiles do, I only knew Willis. I just felt the need to share another part of Willis’ life, in the hopes to put a "counter-epitaph out there. In the years that have followed Willis' suicide, I have been saddened, shocked and terribly dismayed to learn that a whopping volume of "regular" people among us brandish a variety of ugly perversions--most of which will never be exposed publicly. Thanks to our Source the Internet--There isn't a single day that goes by without a revelation of sordid details of yet another well-known, highly respected and admired celeb, leader, official and trusted human being's perversity. I've learned the disgusting truth in numbers about people everywhere who are engaged in pornography--in all its forms, which includes Sex-As-A-Sport, or casual sex. Thanks to the Internet, the line between titillating and pornographic has all but disappeared, and new in-your-face access to pornography is a modern-age Pied Piper, surely responsible for ruining countless lives. 

Turns out, an untold (literally,) and shockingly colossal percentage of all people worldwide are--and have always been--mentally occupied with pornography of some kind, on a variety of levels. So, what determines who among these, put it into action? Nature vs Nurture, existence of opportunity, peers and even cultural standards certainly all come to play as statistics. I thank God that I was blessed with a heart for love and do not find any purpose in recreational sex, which could very well serve as a ground zero departure from what our Creator intended. I believe that all forms of Loveless Sex-As-A-Sport can be at least associated with pornography. I am not interested in justifying what finally destroyed Willis, and I don't suppose to know what caused it. I'm just saying that, sad as it is, Willis was in more company than I'm sure he ever knew, and due to a series of unfolding events, Willis's proclivity was found out. 

Tragically, there are many more pedophiles and perverts living among us than we'd ever believe--as our neighbors, teaching our children, delivering sermons, serving us food and counseling our families. Not singling out any occupation or lifestyle, because not a single one is exempt. It's just that I'll always regret that Willis' perversion was Willis' secret, and as a secret, nothing could save him from his demise. While I do not have the slightest intention of minimizing the horrors of perversity, I hope to leave behind another impression of Willis: Willis the Human, Willis the Artist and Willis the Friend--the Willis I would have loved to introduce to you.

As a Christian, I trust God for Willis’ final salvation. In spite of it all, I know that Willis Loved People. We look at Willis and  a pedophile, and pretty much every redeeming quality about him becomes blurred or obscured. God looks at the whole Willis.  

RIP, Willis.