I met John when I was running in the schoolyard. I was eleven, but I looked younger with my small face, big ears, and mullet of Jewish curls. There were areas designated for tag and others for kickball, and I was trespassing on the latter. So he kicked me out, and I spent the rest of my precious recess inside.

On whose authority? I remember thinking.

I had attended the same private school for seven years, and there were few strangers to me. But he was a stranger. Strange to look at too—crooked teeth, and cheekless.

For a week, without him knowing, we were mortal enemies.

#

At that age, I was precociously horny, or at least it felt that way. I used sexual fantasies to lull myself to sleep. Without much experience, I struggled to vividly reconstruct breasts and locate vaginas on the women in my dreams. They were all taller than me. They were older than me too. Standing next to them, I would look like their child, which seemed wrong. So I pictured them coupled with other, bigger, more appropriate men. And I would watch from inside a closet or an overhead vent.

It was also, at that time, that I started sex-ed. Russel Tombline, my favorite red-headed gym teacher, was supposed to teach my class, but, through some clerical miscalculation, he had been double booked. So instead, John was deputized. Now, it is strange to think that he was the one who taught me the ins and outs of sex, how to put a condom on a banana, and when and where us young boys would grow pubic hair, but at the time it felt natural. And we became great friends.

Despite his demons, I think it is still fair to say that his passion was for helping people. This is why he left Brooklyn for South Africa, opening up an after school program in the small township of Jo Slovo. On its surface, it was primarily an arts organization, but it was also much more. John provided hundreds of children with daily meals, clothing, academic support, and, in one case, a new set of corneas. Too often, he also provided a few with a roof and a bed.

In high school, I spent a month out there, as a volunteer and teacher. After class we would spend time in the township. One time, I remember John reprimanded one of the chaperones for taking pictures of the children. The chaperone was named John too, but went by Dr. D.

“Don’t treat them like zoo animals. If you are going to take their photo, you have to ask first.”

Everyone in the area knew and loved John. Walking with him felt like walking with royalty.

“John! John!” went the happy cries of children when they saw him coming. And it felt good to be with him.

This last bit feels like a real memory, and something like it definitely happened, but I’ve stolen the specifics from the beautiful letter his brother posted on Facebook three days after John’s suicide.

#

Later, on that same trip, we went to an art opening featuring John and one of his employee’s work. I’m ashamed to say I forgot the other man’s name, but I own two of his pieces. The canvases were large, something like ten by ten feet. The figures were drawn with loose lines, and lizard heads. In contrast, John’s works were quieter, the size of postcards, made from old photos he found in vintage stores and his parents’ photo albums. He embroidered each with dainty, colorful thread and buttons. He used these simple materials to stitch balloons into children’s empty hands, and patterns onto blank walls. The crowd was large, but they weren’t taken with John’s art, which were all overpriced and, as I said, quiet.

The next time I saw John’s work was at his memorial. It was hosted in his best friend's home, in a room directly above the one where he had taken his own life. Her walls adorned with pictures of her children, John had left his mark on each one with roads of green, orange, and blue thread.

#

When he was living in South Africa, he came back to the states every now and then for clothes, canned goods, books, and my mom’s cooking. She expanded her culinary repertoire to accommodate his dietary restrictions. He was a vegetarian. He didn’t drink. Looking back, I think this was proof that he was fighting his demons, trying, in vain, to train himself to not want what the heart wants. Meat. Drink. Love.

I am aware that I am maybe being too generous. My girlfriend says she finds it bizarre that I’m not more angry, and I wonder if that’s a moral failing of some kind. It’s uncomfortable, but I feel his passing, and even these hard revelations, as a deep, rending loss.

#

The last time I saw John was at a screening of a movie he had made with the kids. If memory serves, it got into something like a hundred different film festivals. The screening was held in a lavish, Upper West Side apartment building. I was the youngest person there by decades. John was the only one I could talk to comfortably. He knew this and tried to make time for me, but he needed to fundraise and shmooze. Without him, I floundered a bit, ejecting myself from multiple small conversations with the same excuse, “I need to use the bathroom.” I did this so many times, people were starting to worry about my bladder.

Instead of peeing, I explored the halls, and found a photo of the hosts’ son. It turned out that I knew him. He was a classmate of mine, who had been volunteering with John at the same time as my brother. Only a few months before the screening, he had died suddenly of a brain aneurysm. I couldn’t get his face out of my head for the rest of the night and for many days afterwards. When it comes to death, I’ve always been particularly sensitive.

#

I still don’t know exactly what John did. But when he found out some of the kids who had stayed with him had spoken up, he killed himself. He didn’t sleep on it. He acted.

My mom says, “he is a monster,” with love and tears still in her eyes. My brother says so too. I’m not so sure. I think instead, he was a haunted saint with footsteps of fire.

Don’t get too close, he should’ve warned us. You might just burn up.

Nadim Silverman is a half-Muslim, half-Jewish illustrator and aspiring novelist based in New York City. His literary influences include writers like Colson Whitehead, Ursula Le Guin, and China Mieville, all of whom wield the bizarre and supernatural to parse out pressing earthly questions. He is currently attending SUNY Stony Brook’s MFA program.