January 22, 2004

Perchance to Dream

(Note: The following happened on Saturday, 301316Z DEC 03. I've finally gotten around to finishing it because it’d been rather emotional to write this and had to get it out in pieces.)

ATLANTA – I couldn’t help but think of the last time I ate dinner at the Atlanta Hard Rock Café. It was 1998 and toward the end of my internship at The Flint Journal, and my fellow intern-cohort and I had been granted hiatus from the Michigan afternoon, daily newspaper to job search, network or whatever it is that students do at business educational conferences (read: drink with friends).

We’d beaten everyone to the city by a day after a Thursday morning flight from Detroit the night before the seminar formally began. As bored as two restless college students can be, we hopped on the MARTA headed downtown, and eventually to the Hard Rock for dinner. I loathe admitting that the destination was my idea. It was my little-known t-shirt collection era from various franchises of the restaurant around the world.

Michael Kaire was a talented photographer full of nothing but the desire to please his editors. He had stilts for legs that balanced his lanky, six-foot, three-inch frame. The bridge of his nose refused to allow the thick, round spectacles perched there to move, and his medium brown hair was short enough that it spiked at the crest of his head. A permanent boyish smile finished an awkward young man at 24.

Just about a year ago Michael got his first job at the The Courier in Houma, Louisiana. He was excited, to say the least, and e-mailed everyone he knew that he was a staffer at a daily newspaper in rural Cajun country. I know I was proud of him and I regret that I’d never told him so.

And as fellow interns go, I couldn’t have had a better one in Michael. We complimented each other in every way, including appearance. It must’ve been funny watching him walk in with a stocky curmudgeon of a former sailor to football games and other events that we photographed together.

But I haven’t clicked with anyone else like he and I did on a football field since. We would be constantly aware of each other’s position and adjust accordingly. We communicated through hand signals, which we’d never talked about, but understood nonetheless. When I missed a picture, he had it. When he missed, I had it. Together we were a machine.

Michael was home in bed on Dec. 13, 2002, asleep, when the assailant broke into his apartment. The would-be killer, who turned 21 that month, crept into Michael’s bedroom like a shadow. He wanted to feel what it was like to kill someone, he told police when he was captured in Tennessee the following day.

Only the murderer knows how long he stood watching my peaceful friend draw his final breaths. Then that fucking bastard raised an aluminum baseball bat above his head and brought down his first deadly blow.

I wasn’t thinking about that last meal I’d had with Michael at that Hard Rock five years ago. The eight of us walked in; six football players, a reporter and me, and the memory snuck up on me as a chill that started at the base of my neck and shot straight into my core.

But it was good to remember him, even though what prompted it was a bit shocking. Michael Kaire was a gentle soul and never deserved the violent death that was dealt him. I, hopefully amongst others, will always remember his happy-go-lucky way.

- Rich