A long time ago, in what seems like a galaxy far, far away, I had an online friend who called himself Slim D.

You wouldn’t know it to read his writings, because he truly had the soul of a poet, but he was a near-recluse in an apartment on the fringes of Harlem in New York City.  He was a brilliant writer, equally skilled at writing satire, commentary and erotica.

Eventually, some other online friends who lived in the area met him and persuaded him to do some traveling, which is how I finally met him out here in LA.  His name was David, and he had been born with transposition of the major vessels of the heart and was one of the first children to have the surgery to correct it, in the 50s.  Although the operation improved his health dramatically, he was never entirely well.

I loved talking with him and reading the things he wrote, and after his trip to Los Angeles he began to get out a bit more, quit the dead-end job he’d had for years and got a new one building and selling computers, which he loved.  He owned one of the first Amigas and was passionate about it, although he could never afford to expand it beyond its original configuration.

Slim D found a girlfriend, with whom he was happy enough to leave the USA and travel to  Rome, where she worked, and stay with her there.  But his health was slowly deteriorating, and he made the decision not to have more surgery even though his doctors pushed for it.

One day, he got on his moped and set out for destinations unknown, and somewhere along the way, he pulled to the curb, collapsed and died.  Other friends with whom I had lost touch managed to track me down and give me the news.

The world was a diminished place without this gentle soul.  But time went by, and I let his memory fade.  It’s been more than ten years now since he died.

Last night I dreamed about my friend David, and he was happy, and whole.  I think of it as a message of hope and peace.  Wherever you are, Slim D, thanks for the memories.

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