| Photos: Dan Marschka / Intell Journal |
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End of a life lived large
BY JUSTIN QUINN
Tristan Egolf was the first close friend I made when I transferred from Manheim Township Junior High School to Centerville Junior High School in the eighth grade. It was September 1985, and since the day I met him, his personality and enthusiasm for life never wavered.
That's why his death by suicide last Saturday morning has left me with a gaping wound that will never fully heal.
Tristan was always roping me into his strange adventures. One memory that stands out was when he started an underground newspaper at Hempfield High School and recuited me as literary talent.
I often felt like Tristan's hired muscle, even though he didn't have to offer me a thing to get me to participate. As late as two months ago, he asked me to try out for a singing role in a rock opera he wrote about Led Zepplin and John Fogerty (I told him no, a decision I now regret).
Ironically, Tristan, who would later become a fiction writer, wrote the news stories, while I, the future reporter, wrote the fiction. We sold more than 80 copies of the photo-copied legal-sized newspaper at 50 cents apiece before getting caught. true to his word, Tristan split the profits with me. I pocketed almost 20 bucks because the project cost nothing (he used the free copier in the teachers' lounge - don't ask me how he got away with it).
Anyway, Tristan had written some nasty things about the Hempfield administration in this underground paper, and we were both hauled down to the "principal's office" for disciplining. Several teachers had cracked our obvious pseudonyms, which escape me now.
I'll never forget our reactions when the dean told us that while we were suspended for two days, he was nevertheless amazed at the level of talent that went into the production of the paper. He encouraged us to join The Flash (where fellow Intell reporter, Madelyn Pennino, worked at the time). I tried hard to suppress my smirk, but Tristan just let out a bellow of laughter right in the dean's face. he told the dean that he obviously had no idea what we were trying to accomplish and that his advice was undeniable proof of it.
instead of two days, we wound up suspended for three, and I don't think I even said a single word during the entire meeting.
As with most people who met Tristan, the dean held a strange affection for him after that day. And the feeling was mutual. The two would often exchange pleasantries in the hallways and Tristan always had the goofy smile on his face.
When I saw him the day before he died, he was with his lovely fiancee, Kara Dimitris, and his beautiful 9-month-old daughter, Orla Story, who was sound asleep. He still had that smile spread across his jaw, the one that made you think he was planning a revolution or hatching some hare-brained scheme.
When I found out he died,I though of all the things he was and some of the things he wasn't.
I remembered how we used to get together on Saturday afternoons last year in the basement of Zoetropolis and edit each other's fiction. Tristan's latest book, Kornwolf, was amazing - better than anything I had seen from him. His criticisms of my work were intelligent and helpful and right in line with my way of thinking. I still have some of his chicken-scratch scrawled in the margins of my rough drafts.
I also remembered how he took his coffee - black as darkness and out of a ceramic cup. I remembered how when he offered it to me, I always tried to sip the bitter liquid down with a smile - even though I take my coffee with cream and sugar - just to show him I could hang.
Tristan was more than just the leader of the Smoketown Six. he was more than a political activist who ripped of his clothes and re-enacted the Abu Grahib prison pyramid in hopes that President Bush would see him. He was more than the author of three books. He was more than just the front man in a band.
Tristan Egolf was a poet, not just with music and words, but with life. He was a father, a son, a brother and a fiancee. He was also, I'm proud to say, one of my oldest and dearest friends.
That's why his death by suicide last Saturday morning has left me with a gaping wound that will never fully heal.
Tristan was always roping me into his strange adventures. One memory that stands out was when he started an underground newspaper at Hempfield High School and recuited me as literary talent.
I often felt like Tristan's hired muscle, even though he didn't have to offer me a thing to get me to participate. As late as two months ago, he asked me to try out for a singing role in a rock opera he wrote about Led Zepplin and John Fogerty (I told him no, a decision I now regret).
Ironically, Tristan, who would later become a fiction writer, wrote the news stories, while I, the future reporter, wrote the fiction. We sold more than 80 copies of the photo-copied legal-sized newspaper at 50 cents apiece before getting caught. true to his word, Tristan split the profits with me. I pocketed almost 20 bucks because the project cost nothing (he used the free copier in the teachers' lounge - don't ask me how he got away with it).
Anyway, Tristan had written some nasty things about the Hempfield administration in this underground paper, and we were both hauled down to the "principal's office" for disciplining. Several teachers had cracked our obvious pseudonyms, which escape me now.
I'll never forget our reactions when the dean told us that while we were suspended for two days, he was nevertheless amazed at the level of talent that went into the production of the paper. He encouraged us to join The Flash (where fellow Intell reporter, Madelyn Pennino, worked at the time). I tried hard to suppress my smirk, but Tristan just let out a bellow of laughter right in the dean's face. he told the dean that he obviously had no idea what we were trying to accomplish and that his advice was undeniable proof of it.
instead of two days, we wound up suspended for three, and I don't think I even said a single word during the entire meeting.
As with most people who met Tristan, the dean held a strange affection for him after that day. And the feeling was mutual. The two would often exchange pleasantries in the hallways and Tristan always had the goofy smile on his face.
When I saw him the day before he died, he was with his lovely fiancee, Kara Dimitris, and his beautiful 9-month-old daughter, Orla Story, who was sound asleep. He still had that smile spread across his jaw, the one that made you think he was planning a revolution or hatching some hare-brained scheme.
When I found out he died,I though of all the things he was and some of the things he wasn't.
I remembered how we used to get together on Saturday afternoons last year in the basement of Zoetropolis and edit each other's fiction. Tristan's latest book, Kornwolf, was amazing - better than anything I had seen from him. His criticisms of my work were intelligent and helpful and right in line with my way of thinking. I still have some of his chicken-scratch scrawled in the margins of my rough drafts.
I also remembered how he took his coffee - black as darkness and out of a ceramic cup. I remembered how when he offered it to me, I always tried to sip the bitter liquid down with a smile - even though I take my coffee with cream and sugar - just to show him I could hang.
Tristan was more than just the leader of the Smoketown Six. he was more than a political activist who ripped of his clothes and re-enacted the Abu Grahib prison pyramid in hopes that President Bush would see him. He was more than the author of three books. He was more than just the front man in a band.
Tristan Egolf was a poet, not just with music and words, but with life. He was a father, a son, a brother and a fiancee. He was also, I'm proud to say, one of my oldest and dearest friends.
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