Roughly a decade ago, my boyfriend at the time came home from a night out jamming with friends. He said he’d just met a brilliantly talented drummer who lives in our town, and asked if I knew him. He said his name was Tracy. Tracy Morgan.
I answered, “Do you mean thee Tracy Morgan, or is it some Irish guy?”
He said, “I don’t know who thee Tracy Morgan is, but he’s a Tracy Morgan. And no, he’s not Irish; he’s black.”
My imagination began dancing with images of Tracy Morgan (the comedic actor from Saturday Night Live) moving away from the ever-bustling excitement of New York City to settle in my sleepy cowboy surf town just to crash local jams and give us all a thrill. I could totally believe this scenario; Tracy Morgan, impulsive humorist, was surely capable of something as cool as all that.
When I met the drummer–not comic–Tracy Morgan, I felt silly to assume that a black guy named Tracy Morgan surely must be of SNL fame. I told him as much, and asked if he was familiar with his alias. Of course he was, and he added it was cool that there was another black guy named Tracy Morgan because he’d gone most of his life thinking he shared his name solely with blonde white women.
After getting to know Tracy, I grew to consider him the finest drummer on California’s central coast. He had an amazingly soft touch that made me want to mute all other instruments when the rock egos got too loud with their amps. While most of the other drummers around were mashing at their drum sets like Animal, Tracy had nuance to his performances that could be easily lost on the average Muppet-head. I grew to consider my musician friend Tracy as thee Tracy Morgan.
I’ve lost touch with Tracy, and just about everyone else local that I’ve come to know and love, due to depression brought on by ongoing flare ups of R.A. Sometimes, I haven’t been able to walk very well, and I’ve said to myself, “No one wants to chill with a gimpy girl!” That mantra can become pervasive, and all the times I wanted to message a friend just to say how much they meant to me at one time or another I have continuously censored myself.
Last month, my friend Kevin passed away. I dearly wish I had reached out to him, even in my gimp-state, just to say that I considered him a truly remarkable person, when I still had time to say it.
When I finally worked up the courage to write an Ode to Kevin Lawrence, I wanted so much to reach out to other dear friends as well. Tracy was the first friend I thought of, but I couldn’t find him on facebook, and I’ve been away from the local social scene so long that I have no idea whether or not he’s on a world tour with Louie Ortega (or some other band) or even of this mortal coil. I posted a question regarding his whereabouts to all my fb peeps, but I got no reply.
Turns out, I’ve been a virtual hermit so long that I lost a friend and I don’t even know when it happened or why. Maybe he just got sick of fb? Maybe he blocked me the same day I pissed off another friend (via fb thread fodder) and got blocked without a chance for defense, self-correction or dialog by that other guy. Maybe there are more people dear to me who couldn’t give a fuck either.
Well, whatever the true story is, Tracy, I’m sorry that I lost you as a friend. I wish that it weren’t so, but I’d rather that were the case than to think that you cease to beat that drum.