Matt and I had a plan. Fed up with the director of our high school fall play, we decided to play a practical joke on her. We were seniors; we thought we ruled the school. Even though we still had to worry about grades and the prospect of getting into college, we carried with us an air of invincibility. We thought we were kings.

October, 1987. The air was cooler; the days were shorter and the leaves dangled for life in shades of red and gold. When we weren’t studying for AP English, running cross country or out on the practice field with the marching band, we were rehearsing in the junior high auditorium on its sturdy old stage and hundreds of empty seats in front of us. Matt and I would typically carpool to rehearsals, generally in the Whomobile. To psyche ourselves up we’d blast the car stereo and sing at the top of our lungs. We’d listen to U2’s The Joshua Tree and Sting’s …Nothing Like the Sun. The latter album, with its chilly demeanor, intricate music and thoughtful lyrics, felt better suited for the autumn. My favorite song was “Straight to My Heart”; Matt liked Sting’s collaboration with Gil Evans, the cover of Jimi Hendrix’s “Little Wing.”  We both loved “Englishman in New York.” Sting’s tribute to his friend, writer Quentin Crisp, has a whimsical tone, tinged with Sting’s typical melancholy and Branford Marsalis’s weeping saxophone. It will always remind me of my friendship with Matt and the evening we rewrote Agatha Christie. (more…)