I didn’t know Mike well. No one did. He was the kind of person you saw once or twice a year, were reminded how intense and intellectually curious he was, told yourself that you should see him more often, but somehow never got around to it.
Women fell in love with him on sight. He had jet-black hair and movie-star looks, but that was only half of it. There was a hint of danger in him, of someone who trusted his instincts completely, without thought that they could be wrong.
Men like me envied his knowledge of machines. Mike was a mechanic at a major airline. He could take apart any kind of engine and put it together again. He could also build anything from scrap. Need a compressor to paint your house? “Here,” he’d say. “Let me pull the motor off this old lawn mower, weld a stand for it, and mount some wheels. It’ll just take a minute.”
Despite having seniority, Mike worked weekends and holidays at the airline because it didn’t matter to him; he didn’t have a family. He rarely traveled, even though he could fly for free anywhere in the world, because there was no place he wanted to see. He never bought a house, although he could easily have afforded one. He did buy a junkyard, though, a real junkyard, so that he had plenty of material for his building projects.
About 10 years into his career at the airlines, Mike fell from the wing of a 747. He hit the tarmac and shattered both legs. Doctors inserted pins to hold his bones together, but said he’d probably never walk again. Mike didn’t hear them. He built a customized wheelchair to propel himself around his shop and then invented a series of walkers and pushed himself maniacally to become more mobile. In eight months, he was fully recovered; years later, doctors still wrote about him in medical journals with awe.
Long after his accident, Mike learned that I liked to play tennis. He challenged me to a match even though he couldn’t remember the last time he’d played. When he showed up, he was dressed the way he always was, entirely in black—a black T-shirt, black jeans, and black, rubber-soled shoes. Those were the only clothes I ever saw him wear, except when it was cold and he added a black leather jacket. The racket he played with was retrieved from a dumpster.
After we rallied for a few minutes, Mike insisted that we play a set. As soon as we started, he tried to hit a winner on every shot. Usually he failed, although a few times—almost by force of will—he surprised me.
“Relax, Mike,” I said at one point. “Have some fun. We don’t need to keep score.”
“It’s only fun if you do something you don’t think you can do,” he said.
A lifelong smoker, Mike developed lung cancer in his 40s. He didn’t tell anyone or seek treatment of any kind. Early one morning, he drove his pickup truck to a park and took his life.
This was years ago, but I still think about it. If only, I think. If only he had told someone. If only we had known.
Mike died the way he lived, alone with his thoughts. He never called or asked for help. I respect that. I wish it had been different, though.
If you or someone you love is contemplating suicide, seek help immediately. For help 24/7, dial 988 for the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline, or reach out to the Crisis Text Line by texting TALK to 741741. To find a therapist near you, visit the Psychology Today Therapy Directory.
