I walked up the three floors to his apartment, wondering what kind of discussion would follow.
I remember how we became friends. Chris came to our church sporting stereotypical biker attire with a history of incarceration and an attitude to match. But behind the hardened mask was a genuine interest in exploring faith and life from a different angle.
From philosophical discussions to theological debates, we covered a broad range of issues and concerns.
I remember the time we even argued about Winnipeg Transit.
The whole notion of working an honest job to earn an honest wage was a tough concept for Chris. It was much easier to make more money doing collections, enforcement, theft, and deals of different sorts. While dangerous and illegal, these provided an addictive blend of excitement and profit.
But despite the rationalizations, Chris knew he was doing wrong. He carried a heavy load of guilt for some of the suffering his actions had caused others. Despite all the forces pulling him the other way, he decided to explore the life of an ordinary citizen.
While on welfare he started volunteering with Lazarus Housing. After a while, he found a part-time job with someone else.
I remember one particularly cold winter day when I asked how it was going at work. He responded that it was good, but it was a long walk in the cold.
I questioned why he would walk over three miles to work -- right along a bus route. I asked, "Why wouldn't you just get on the bus and let it take you right to work?"
And I was shocked at the intensity of his reaction.
He leaned close to my face, speaking loudly and deliberately. "I don't care what you say, Harry. I ain't riding no damned pumpkin!"
I guess some people have a thing against buses. I wasn't sure what the problem was, but I knew this was a problem waiting to be resolved.
I challenged him on the logic of walking in the cold snow when he could be riding in a warm bus. He responded with some nonsense about "the man," the "system" and having to pay to live by someone else's schedule.
I was kind of ticked off at my friend's logic. It was my turn to lean forward and speak firmly. "What makes you think you're so special? You see the old lady, the young immigrant, the student taking the bus. When you're walking in the cold with your frozen pride, you think you're better than them because you haven't given in to taking a bus?"
The yelling continued for awhile inside my office. I remember someone knocking to see if everything was OK. We both calmed down and decided to let it rest.
I didn't say anything more about it. I'll always remember when, weeks later, Chris approached me after church and said he had something to show me. He warned, "But you better promise not to laugh." Checking to make sure nobody was watching, he pulled something from his pocket. His hand opened to reveal a bus pass. He commented, "I still don't like it, but it beats walking." We both smirked and figured things were getting better.
I figured there wasn't much we couldn't talk, or argue, through to some resolution.
I reached Chris's apartment door and knocked. There was no answer. I considered he might be mad about something that he wasn't ready to talk about. So I said, "Chris, open up. If you don't, I'm going to use my key to unlock the door."
Getting no response, I unlocked the door, calling out more loudly to make sure he heard me if he was home.
As I tried to open the door, it was stopped by a secondary chain lock. Getting aggravated, I said, "OK Chris. That's enough. Just open up the door so we can talk. If you don't open it, I'll kick in the door."
I expected an answer, a retort or even a laugh at my pastoral approach. But there was only silence.
So I kicked in the door.
I stood in the doorway and scanned the small apartment for Chris. And I didn't see anything until I stepped inside.
That's when the door moved and I saw Chris -- dead -- hanging on the back of his door.
I didn't know it was possible to feel so shocked, afraid, angry and confused at the same time. Disoriented, I dropped to my knees crying. I asked "Why?" Out loud. I yelled something I can't remember, wishing he would yell back, talk back -- anything but his horrible silence.
As I waited for cops and friends, I looked for a note but there was none to be found.
Years later, I still wonder what happened to spark such an act of anger or despair. I resented him for leaving his friends without an explanation.
I've learned a few things over the past few years. Not all questions get answered. Some circumstances lack adequate explanations. I'm responsible to people -- not for them.
But I still miss Chris.
Rev. Harry Lehotsky
514 Maryland Street
Winnipeg, Mb R3G 1M5
(204) 775-4929
lehotsky@escape.ca