I am told his name means “meat.” Thick, oak-jawed, immoveable, his voice comes straight from lungs lush with mucus, and his syllables plod, halfway between a growl and a pant. My cousin tells him I like music, that I play, and he asks, “Do you like Obituary?” I have yet to hear the death-croaks of, “Chopped in half / feel the blood spill from your mouth / with rotting ways comes destiny,” but Speisch fills me in.
Later that night at the fest, we’re all in an alcove off from the light and crowds. Gorged with rum, vodka, and cigarettes, fumbling for English, he wants my cousin’s attention.
“Hey, Trah-vess: shit.”
We laugh, so he improvises: “Hey—Trahvess! What the fuck.”
Still later that night, Speisch is unconscious and none of us can rouse him. We eventually call an ambulance, and stay with him, so Travis and I are late meeting his mother and my father, sister and brother. They are angry, and we explain about our friend. They are a little less angry.
Days later, we see him on the street. After alcohol poisoning, he will not attend the fest tonight. We ask about his hospital stay and he tells us, “Great fucking breakfast.”
We laugh, and he says it again, bobbing the air with the “ok” sign.
We laugh again, and he says it once more, this time kissing the fingers of his closed hand, then opening them like a flower.