The Automatik

Part of what kept me from going completely insane (or was I already?) during junior high was creating and sharing Duran Duran fantasy stories with my girlfriends, which we called “What-Ifs.” Like Homer, we carried on the tradition of an oral history: sitting on the bleachers near the tennis courts during lunch and filling in the other members of the group with the latest chapter of our lovelorn tales. Or, we would spin our yarns in marathon phone conversations (much to the chagrin of our parents). In these fantasies we were always older, taller, beautiful, independently wealthy, and harbored a hidden secret. A secret that we would try to hide from whichever Duran we were involved with in the story (which was usually at least two members per story)…a secret that threatened to tear us apart…or bring us closer together.
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Today is a sad day. It’s sad because I went to Tom Arbon’s funeral. He wasn’t an old man; he was only 34. And he wasn’t sick. He was stabbed to death at a Halloween party. He leaves behind an 11-year-old son and a wife, a wife he’s been married to for six weeks. No one really knows why the 50-year-old stranger stabbed my co-worker in the chest. Although the news originally reported it as an intervention to stop Tom from beating his wife, this was a suggestion that was almost more shocking than the fact that Tom was stabbed to death. All of his friends and family said that such a scenario was ludicrous. These were the friends and family members who made up the hundred-plus mourners at his funeral. The question of “why?” hangs heavy over the head of everyone there, everyone who knew Tom, a friendly, fun-loving guy who had a big laugh and a big smile for everyone. It hangs especially heavy over the head of Tom’s young son, who most certainly cannot appreciate the gravity of this incident yet.
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