Time rushes onward at a dizzying pace. Places change. Memories fade. Friendships unwind.
I lost track of Kenny almost immediately upon his high school graduation. I saw him briefly in the summer of 1990 and again, briefly, at an uptown bar some lost summer evening a few years afterward. Each time no longer than a minute. And we never spoke. There is nothing unique about kids growing up and seizing the opportunity to leave their hometowns, set sights on distant horizons without looking back.
I didn't know the man that Kenny became, and so I cannot speak to his adult life. As such, I can only share what I knew of Kenny from his, and our, vigorous teenage experiences. I won't go on at length. For if I do, the 17-year old Kenny would roll his eyes, tell me to lighten up and he'd let out with that joyous, infectious laugh of his. Kenny was always right.
I inferred from the obituary that he was known, in recent years, by his close friends by another nickname. That's perfectly acceptable, maybe preferable. We age, we mature. We become better versions of our younger selves. The same, in certain respects, and different in so many others. Kenny was the kid I knew, Kenny is who I remember and Kenny is who I write about here today.
Our paths may have crossed at some now-distant, forgotten point in childhood. On a Little League baseball field? At a birthday for a mutual playmate? No matter, that's inconsequential. I really came to know Kenny through his brother Pete, with whom I became good friends in 8th Grade. It was in the first year of high school, hanging out during afternoons at the Flemings (often watching as youngest brother Jones excelled at mastering all manner of Nintendo video games), that Kenny developed into a good friend. In short order, Kenny was to become both a trusted confidant and a very influential force in my teenage life in so many of the ways that oft are described, these days, as "youthful indiscretions." Those are not reminiscences to be published here, now. Most of you reading this will already know of them via your own, direct indiscretionary participation. Catch up with me some time and, over a beer, I'll gladly share with you some of the dozens upon dozens of nearly unbelievable adventures.
I have only a handful of pictures of, or with Kenny. Here's one:
This photo was taken in 1989 as someone's photography class assignment. You talk about people, places and times that are lost to the ages; the photo was taken in the East Park (redeveloped now), under the water tower (long since demolished) and with a commercial building at far right that no longer exists. This is of a time and place that are, now, virtually unrecognizable. Yet the thing that is readily familiar in this photo is the vibrancy that was such an integral element of Kenny Fleming.
The other four photos were from - some of you already will have guessed - the photo session which yielded our truly infamous 1989 high school yearbook submission. Those pictures really did capture the indomitable spirit of our gang. Here, below, is the first photo taken in that rapid-fire series of four and it serves as a conduit that visually illustrates how important Kenny was to us:
If one can resist the distraction created on the hood of Coach's Skootchwagon by your humble correspondent (flexing for the benefit, I'm sure, of Skootchette), what one sees in this photo is Kenny, front and center. As we progressed though three more photos, all of us switched positions each time - in front of the car, on top of the car, left side, right side - except for one person. In all four photographs, Kenny is always front and center. Coach put the band together, to borrow a phrase, but Kenny was the heart and soul of our rogue operation. And whereas Coach unmistakably was the directional force, Kenny was the driving force.
At Kenny's feet, in the photo above, lies a homecoming parade banner (just one of those myriad youthful indiscretions) that proudly identified our muse; The Cult. Kenny introduced me to The Cult, which the 15-year old me thought was cool, as well as its earlier iteration as the Southern Death Cult, which the 15-year old me thought was even cooler. Kenny's influence covered a broad spectrum and was significant.
We, all of us, were brothers bonded together in common cause; maximizing the volume of fun. You must get the most out of life that you can, and in those high school years we lived a lifetime. This was due in no small part to Kenny Fleming.
Those kids are all gone. In their place are different people. Better versions, we like to think, but more distant versions. Kenny is now irretrievably most distant of all.
Time and distance may divide. I think, certainly, that they do. This never prevented me from thinking of Kenny (and of so many others for which contact has been lost) and it has never diminished how I feel about Kenny. Kenny was a good friend. Kenny was a great friend. And on those occasions since high school when I might have thought about him long enough, I would miss his company. I always will.
Kenny would have wanted me to shut up about 8 paragraphs earlier. Kenny was always right.
Hail and farewell.
