Well, here’s the latest in my “why is my life such a mess” memoir:
Around 1988-89, i became friendly with a 20 year-old acting student at the American Academy of Dramatic Art, and we hung out together for a couple of years. He was from New Jersey, and his dad seemed a bit of a wacko with a really heavy macho complex. When he was in the City and it got too late, he would crash here, and we’d watch movies on VHS or see a show. When i was out of town on a job, he would housesit for 4-6 weeks while i was away.
When he finished at the Academy, he didn’t seem much interested in auditioning, and my memory is that he tended bar. At one point he lived across from Macy’s on 34th Street in an apartment so small it made mine look luxurious. At some point, he followed his grandmother’s example and began writing poetry. He gave me a couple of books he’d self-published.
We lost touch, and one day I got a letter from Mongolia. He had married a Mongolian banker, they were living with her parents in Mongolia, and he was working in an English book store. A couple of years after that, I got a call from New Jersey. I met him one Sunday afternoon for a slice of pizza on the Upper West Side and caught up. They were back in the States with their baby daughter, he was a house dad, and Tula was working for some bank. Another couple of years passed, and he invited me to join them for brunch one sunday before they took their daughter to the matinee of Beauty and the Beast. I got their address and phone number and email address, and heard nothing more.
Several hers later, on my erratic Christmas card whims, I sent them a card and it was returned for having an invalid address. The phone numbers didn’t work, the email was dead, and my stalking instincts took over. Using US/People Search, I sent a couple of letter that always came back with “address unknown.” In early 2013, I tried again, and in late May 2013, I got a letter: he and Tula were divorced, he was living with his dad and grandmother in Essex Falls, NJ, and driving a Domino’s Pizza delivery truck. I called him and we met for dinner at a middle eastern restaurant in the east 30s, and then ended up at an Irish bar on Eighth Avenue and 47th Street or so. He gave me a journal of his drawings and poetry, and we said we’d see each other soon. He was coming into NYC and bumming around on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I suspect now it was to keep out of his dad’s way when he wasn’t driving the truck. That was about the first of June 2013.
Shortly after that, he called and told me that his dad was throwing him out; could he move in with me? I told him i was too crazy finishing up ROBERTA and that we would talk when I got back from Dublin. I also asked him to keep in touch. I became a cripple on August, recorded in Dublin, came hem and dealt with my health. I heard nothing from John. In spring 2014, I tried to call him and his cell phone was dead. I kept thinking, I’ve got to see where John’s gone off to. On September 27, 2014, I sent him a letter explaining my health, unemployment, and general unhappiness, and told him to call me. Around December 1, the letter was returned because of an invalid address.
So, today I thought I’d try to find another address and mail it again. I found an address for Tula, the ex-wife, but nothing for John, so on a whim I googled his name and New Jersey. What I found about the events of June 2013 shortly after he called me explained so much. I also learned that his grandmother died last year at the age of 100.
I won’t be seeing my friend John Mekeel again, since I suspect he’ll be incarcerated for a very long time. I’m still reeling over this one!
http://www.nj.com/news/index.ssf/2013/07/authorities_essex_fells_man_charged_in_murder_of_his_own_father.htmlhttp://www.obitsforlife.com/obituary/897663/Mekeel-Gertrude.php
