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Gray is dead now. The little light of life he managed to preserve
during his three years of nocturnal existence was finally extinguished.
On the evening he died he was as black as the night he had lived
in. You see, two months ago Gray had an awful car accident. He
was arrogantly riding his mountain bike with no helmet, trying
to weave his way through midtown traffic, when a Pakistani taxi
driver accelerated while switching lanes and drove right into him.
The driver, witnessing Gray’s body bounce off his windshield,
fly through the air, and land on the hard asphalt five cars away,
had a heart attack and died on the spot. Maybe the driver freaked
out thinking he would be deported. It doesn’t really matter.
This was the end of Gray and some anonymous Paki driver. But the
driver had no name (the cab and it’s license weren’t
his and there was no ID found on his body). So really the cabby
never existed in the first place. But Gray? Everyone knew Gray.
His death definitely had an impact. Some downtown partiers claim
that New York City nightlife will never fully recover.
But I’m not here to write about nightlife, really. I’m
writing this merely to present the story of Gray. Luckily, when
he had his mystical awakening with the answering machine, he
thought it was so revolutionary, so significant to human development
that he decided to document his experience in a journal. And
guess what? His parents gave me the journal after he died. They
found my phone number written in red on the back cover of his
journal. They thought that the fact that my number was written
in red and on his journal made me more important than the 3,432
phone numbers in his contact database. I’m pretty sure
Gray was simply transcribing my number from his answering machine
one day, and the only thing he had handy was his journal and
a red pen. If they only knew how little I meant to him, that
he only knew me as Kaz the Australian bartender from Serena,
and at best would describe me as a pretty girl with a sexy accent.
Or a
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