I guess I never really knew him, though for 2 1/2 weeks I thought I had come to know him well. But I’m very bad with names, always have been, so to me, he was ‘Bunkie’, ‘cause that’s what he was – my Bunkie. And he always had a friendly word for me, or anyone else for that matter.
Tonight in H Unit, while coming out of the chow hall, I hit the deck when the Dorm 1 alarm went off. I sat there for awhile and watched the ambulance come and, finally, go. Word came to us that it was a “man down,” and that he had stopped breathing. Thinking back, I’m not really sure what I thought about that, and maybe I simply decided not to think about it, then I went about my business.
Only later did someone tell me who had died, that it was my “Bunkie.” That he had simply lain down on his bunk to rest…and died. With two months left on a sentence that had inadvertently become a death sentence.
And then it occurred to me that…this man who I had taken a liking to in the brief time that I knew him, who always said ‘hello’ in passing, and I didn’t even know his name. And as I asked around of others who had known him and had shared greetings with him on a regular basis, I came to realize that none knew his name. He had come and gone in anonymity. Many had known him, however briefly, and many had liked him. But none knew his name.
It’s like that in prison, many of us coming and going all the time, with most never leaving anything resembling a permanent impression. And no constants in out lives. And sometimes, not even a name.
It’s possible that months from now my Bunkie won’t even be a memory for many people. But I liked him, and already I miss him.
Rick. His name was Rick. Richard Simpson, or at least that’s what the c/o told me my Bunkie’s name was. Rest in peace, Rick. You were a good man, a good Bunkie, and at least I oughta know your name.
