R.I.P. Steve Harris

Steve Harris was one of my first customers. He dared to harangue me for being a capitalist even as he bought used books and Steal Your Face stickers from my teeny shop, which was barely making a profit. I generally shot back with a defense: Yeah, but at least I'm a NICE capitalist! This was 1987, and I had opened The Emporium with only a cloudy idea of what I wanted to do with the place. Twenty years later with a different shop name in a different town, I'm still not sure what I'm doing, but the proceeds of this entrepreneurial endeavor keeps the family fed. And so it goes on.

Statesboro, Georgia is the home of Georgia Southern University, which means that our culture rotates around cheap beer, football, and Jesus - generally in that order. The town didn't get liquor by the drink until 1995, so back in the glorious eighties we all drank Budweiser and Michelob Light at house parties which drew dozens and - at the infamous annual Hat Party - hundreds of revelers. There were usually roaring fires, frosty kegs, college radio blaring Violent Femmes and classic Pylon, drunken students mating behind azalea bushes, mushrooms fresh from a midnight harvest in nearby cow pastures, swimming in muddy ponds, hooting and hollering, a stray professor leaning over cute co-eds, and guys like Steve who would ride up from Brunswick in order to visit old friends from his alma mater. He might take in a football game or watch the Chickasaw Mud Puppies stomp and sing at the Rockin' Eagle. He would invariably stop in first thing at The Emporium and catch up on local gossip with me. Later on I might see him and the rest of the league of post-grad bachelors out at Dave's or Eric's. Dave might be holding a raise-the-rent party with a couple of bands on a makeshift stage. Eric would fish from his porch, sitting on a mildewing outdoor sofa and holding court with students, bikers from other counties, and his best friend Steve Harris.

Eric called me today and told me that Steve died last night from leukemia. He was 49.

I can still remember Steve at a mid-nineties Grateful Dead concert at the Atlanta Omni. We had abandoned the tents at Stone Mountain and I had a hundred dollar hotel room that night. Steve and Don had paid us twenty bucks to hang out afterward until they felt sober enough to drive. And as I tried to sleep, I kept hearing Steve laugh and laugh while he sat in a chair, high as a kite. There was no television on, no conversation. Just the cosmic giggle which had grabbed ahold of Steve and wouldn't let go. I finally fell asleep to the sound of him laughing.

I hope that Steve is having a great cosmic belly laugh today, wherever he is.

R.I.P. Steve Harris

NTD