#72, Matthew V.

Matthew. My sister and i fondly referred to you as "the gay white aborigine". You worked at the art store, and smelled like patchouli and the strong smoke of smudged sage. You were tallish, and way skinny, and seemed to acquire an extra few pounds just from all of the metal accessories you wore, which clanked in announcement of your arrival before you even got near anyone. You wore jean jackets or vests, with tattered band shirts, and always boots. Your long, dark, wiry beard was the subject of much wonder. i had never seen anyone with the kind of tattoos that you had: green, swampy, spirally art covered much of your exposed flesh. You wore horn in your ears and bone in your nose, and the inside of your van was covered with feathers and animal skulls. Originally from Louisiana, you had become a vegan while living in the Bay Area but still sometimes secretly snacked on the fried pork skins your mom would send you. Wherever you were to be found, there was always Jack Daniels and death metal. Once i was coming back from a bank run and saw you leaning casually against the front wall of the store, eating a mango.
want some? you asked me, and sliced off a piece with your buck knife. We stood there, and ate, smiling in the sun, delicious yellow juice dripping from our fingers. i miss you, man!