That’s Life: The Mighty Quinn

Tony. re-sharing a touching and yet inspiring past article this week...

I once talked to a woman who had lost her son. He must have been 15. Maybe 16. I don’t remember. I will remember forever what she said between the silences that dominated the conversation, between the pauses that take measure of the pain.

“It was hard,” she said. Simple, profound, starkly elegant, it was all that she could say, all that was necessary.

Sunday morning, Julie appeared in the doorway to my sanctuary as I was staring at my computer wondering what to write this week. In town, graduates were readying robes and tassels, preparing for life. School is out. Summer is here. Much-needed rain spawned lush green growth.

“Quinn Trindle is dead,” she told me. Joe Frazier in his prime could not have hit me harder. She read a Facebook post from Quinn’s sister, Molly. It was suicide.

We looked at each other helplessly. Julie in the doorway, me in my chair, but really, on the floor, on the canvas. I think I moaned, but was otherwise incoherent. As if coherence has a place at times like this, with news like this. She closed the door slowly and left me alone.

We had mourned Quinn’s loss to us years ago, when Pat, Joan, Riley, Molly and Quinn moved from Ashley to Ft. Benton, Mont. No one mourned more than Dylan. Quinn was his best friend, the kind of friend every young boy should have—the kind you usually find only in the movies, or in stories, heroic in their devotion, epic in their loyalty and hugeness of heart. And these things Quinn Trindle was.

I do not know, cannot know, the inner workings of a friendship like that. These are sacred mysteries, known only to the boys who form these bonds. From the outside, it seemed they found each other through nonconformity. They each marched—meandered, really—to the beat of eclectic drumming, rhythms that made sense only to them.

Quinn was a mighty wrestler. During PeeWee matches, he would wade through opponents, a wiry buzz saw of energy, and then he would cheer on Dylan, who had none of Quinn’s acumen for the sport. The losses mounted for Dylan, but each time, after each defeat, Quinn would throw his arm around his friend and encourage him. “You’re getting better,” he would say.

It would have been easy for Dylan to resent the gold medals Quinn wore home from each meet. Easy for Quinn to move on to new friendships in the circle of winners. Neither of them were wired that way.

In February, Quinn finished second in the Montana State Wrestling Tournament at 135 pounds.

Pat and Joan were our friends, free-thinking, funny, cantankerous and wise. When they left it was a loss, a void as vast as the 700 miles between us, that can never be filled. But, for Dylan, it was much harder. Friends like Quinn Trindle come along just once in a lifetime, if ever.

Who can know what causes a boy to end his life before it has really begun. Is it possible to be so beloved and not know it?

A friend posted this on Facebook: “Alright buddy, I’m going to write one last goodbye... I’ll miss you bro, from all the good times, to the gossip and all the plans we had... You were my closest friend, I don’t think I could tell anyone half the stuff I’ve told you... and I’ll miss all the times we shared... all the stupid stuff we’ve done, all the smart stuff we’ve done... Oh, and one other thing... we’re keeping your spot in the Bro Circle warm... Love you, man... Rest in peace...”

His girlfriend wrote, “R.I.P., my beloved. I will never forget all the amazing times we’ve had together. I will never stop loving you. You are my one and only love. You are my first love and we’ve had a love that will always last. I wish I could have told you I love you a lot more.”

I stared at the blurry computer screen. I usually write my column on Sundays, but this time I couldn’t—couldn’t write about that. About this. But I got up at 5 a.m. on Monday to face it.

It is 6 a.m. now. Dylan just drove up from the overnight Grad Bash, the crunch of gravel beneath the tires. I began breathing again, knowing he was home.

Dammit, Quinn. God damn it all to hell.