Bill

Last Sunday morning, the sunshine felt like rain.
Week before, they all seemed the same.
With the help of God and true friends, I come to realize
I still had two strong legs, and even wings to fly.

And oh I, ain't wastin time no more
'Cause time goes by like hurricanes, and faster things.

Lord, lord Miss Sally, why all your cryin'?
Been around here three long days, you're lookin' like you're dyin'.
Just step yourself outside, and look up at the stars above
Go on downtown baby, find somebody to love.

Meanwhile I ain't wastin' time no more
'Cause time goes by like pouring rain, and much faster things.

You don't need no gypsy to tell you why
You can't let one precious day slip by.
Look inside yourself, and if you don't see what you want,
Maybe sometimes then you don't,
But leave your mind alone and just get high.

-The Allman Brothers Band



That song always makes me think of Bill Strout. The lyrics
are similar to things he said to me, and when I have listened
to the song over the years, it has always lifted my spirits in
the same way that he was able to do.

When I met Bill, he was a bright young litigator at the
politically-active law firm where we both worked. Prior to
our firm, he had worked for David Walters in his successful
bid for Governor. His legal assistant, Sandra Monko, remains
one of my best friends, although we don’t see each other as
much now. She was extremely close to Bill. Another bright
young lawyer, Scott Thompson, was Bill’s best friend, and
the four of us used to go out drinking together and we would
eat lunch together on a regular basis.

I wanted to put Bill’s picture on this post, but none of us seem
to have one. Bill was a tall, dark and handsome Texan. He
always dressed well. He drove a great big shiny pickup truck
of one kind or another the whole time I knew him. I’ve
known a lot of arrogant litigators, but Bill was more arrogant
than all of them put together. He was a good lawyer, a good
writer, and he could talk. Oh, man, could he ever. He could
lift you up or knock you down with his words. He was
also goofy at times, and crude - always.

Bill lived in a whirlwind; Bill was a whirlwind. In the
middle of a case, he would work non-stop, night and day,
until he made himself ill. He would call me at two or three
in the morning from the office. He never really needed
anything; I think he just wanted to hear someone’s voice –
it was lonely in the office at night - and he had already
talked to Sandra and Scott until they finally told him they
had to get some sleep. Bill didn’t sleep much.

Hanging out with Bill was nearly always a good time. He’d
give me a call in the evening or I’d give him one and he’d
pick me up and take me for drinks and a steak, or a dozen
oysters, or both. We’d sit and talk, mostly about fishing.
He’d tell me about his trips to the Gulf of Mexico. He and
friends would rent a boat and catch huge fish. When we
went to lunch with the others, Bill would often rope me into
sharing a pizza with every type of fish the restaurant had on
it – shrimp, smoked oysters, anchovies, the works. Nobody
else would touch it. He loved to eat and he loved to drink.
He drank too much and, when he was on medication, he
wasn’t supposed to drink at all.

Despite the fact that my contact with Bill was come-and-go,
he sealed his position as a true friend in two ways. First, he
took the details of one my most embarrassingly irresponsible
moments to his grave. Second, ironically enough, he helped
save my life.

Before you start wondering about my irresponsible moment,
it wasn’t as simple a thing as sleeping with Bill and I wish it
had never happened, so you ain’t gonna hear about it.
Despite having witnessed it himself, he apparently revealed it
to no one. To his credit, he only mentioned it to me once and
he only laughed a little (and mostly with me, not at me).

I met Bill at one of my lowest times. I had just disrupted the
lives of everyone I loved by having split with my husband of
11 years. I had started back to work after a one-year stint as
an at-home mom. My three-year-old daughter was upset to
have to return to daycare, and I was wracked with guilt.
During that period, I frequently fantasized about killing
myself. I told this to only a couple of people, Sandra and
Bill. Sandra helped me beyond measure, but that is a story
for another memorial, one I fervently hope never to write.

Bill’s help took the form of propping up my self-esteem. Bill
was an all-time, record-holding bullshit artist from the
Bullshit Artist Hall of Fame. In short, he could sweet-talk the
wimmins. The funny thing is that, even though you knew Bill
was full of shit, you still believed him when he told you how
smart you were, how pretty, what a great mom you were, how
much you had going for you.

It sounds shallow, but how can you keep on feeling bad when
someone else thinks so much of you?

He never chastised me for wallowing in self-pity. I suspect
he understood how I felt. He just stopped by, picked me up,
bought me a steak and a couple of margaritas, gave me a pep
talk, then dropped me off at the house feeling better. I didn’t
realize it at the time, but this was the equivalent of a drunk
staggering through a china shop and somehow managing to
bump the dishes into more stable positions. I don’t question
the miracle of this – I’m just grateful.

Bill, himself, wasn’t stable. He never took care of himself
and he seemed to only have fun when he was engaging in
self-destructive behavior. He crashed and burned once while
I knew him and had to be hospitalized for awhile. I believe
he was diagnosed as bipolar at that time. When he got out, he
was different for awhile, shakier, quieter.

I saw him several months later and he seemed his old self
again. I noted that he had started drinking again. I talked to
him about the counseling I was undergoing at that time and he
told me, dryly, that “those doctors don’t know what the fuck
they’re talking about – it’s all bullshit.” We all worried
about him.

He helped me again, a couple of years later, when I had just
had my heart broken. (Again, a story for another time.) He
showed up for a few weeks, just in time to prop up my self-
esteem, then he was gone. I didn’t know it would be the last
time I would ever see him.

Sandra called me, yesterday, and told me that Bill apparently
killed himself. It happened on June 6, 2005, in San Antonio,
but we know little else. His ex-wife in Oklahoma City didn’t
tell anybody here who knew him about his death, so we were
unable to attend services.

When he died at 35, Bill left behind several ex-wives, numerous
children, friends who wish we had stayed in better touch with
him, and at least one who did stay in touch as best he could.
Bill kept changing his phone number. He seems to have been
experiencing paranoid delusions before he died – he thought
someone was after him.

I fell asleep last night, trying to will myself to dream of Bill.
I have so many questions I want to ask him.