This week I received word that an old high school classmate, Steve Zella, is missing after a kayak accident in the Texas community where he works and lives with his wife and two children. Steve and I were not best friends; in fact, we didn’t even run in the same circle of people. Still, in the short time that I knew him he was always the sweetest, nicest guy you could meet. A good soul, you might say. The randomness of his accident and the fact that he has two young children who are missing him has saddened me greatly these past three days. It has definitely given me pause to reflect on the important things in life.

Steve and I met in the mid ’80s, when we shared a couple of classes. Our common interest, besides comparing homework notes, was a passion for the classic rock music we were all discovering in the 9^th and 10^th grades. Between classes, while we sat at our desks waiting for the next bell, I would go on and on about the greatness of Cream and how Eric Clapton truly was a god. My enthusiasm eventually won over some of the people I was preaching to, including Steve. The night he revealed his conversion to the church of Clapton took place in the middle of an insanely huge party, and that night remains one of my lasting high school memories.

It was one of those bashes started when some poor guy let everyone know that his parents were leaving town. By Friday, the entire school knew where to show up on Saturday. Kids were coming out of the woodwork, lounging on the stairs, kissing on the couch in the family room, taking up space in the bedrooms and playing drinking games in the kitchen. I arrived alone and spent the night mooching beer from people and trying to convince a couple of girls to join me upstairs for some quality makeout time. No, they didn’t laugh in my face. Instead, I received pitiful smiles and comments like, “Oh, honey, no.” Dejected and feeling sorry for myself, I sulked into the living room and slapped hands with Steve and the two buds he was hanging with.

The music was loud and we had to shout to hear each other. We exchanged niceties, laughed at some of the drunker kids, and then Steve, out of the blue, said to me, “Hey man, remember how you were always talking about Cream?” I nodded and said something completely deep like, “Fuckin’ ‘A’! Cream, dude!” Steve went on to explain that after I’d talked incessantly about the damn group for almost a year he gave them a listen, and to his delight, he loved Cream. Our screaming conversation was capped off by the two of us singing the riff from “Sunshine of Your Love.” We hoisted cans of beer and toasted.

CREAM! CREAM! (more…)