The Death of a Young Friend

It’s a perfect, cloudless day here. The temperature is 78. Mild by recent standards. I was awake most of the night with intestinal problems. This is not at all unusual for me. As I have written lately, I used to have excellent meds for cruel pain. Then the Bolsheviks in D.C. and in Sacramento changed the laws.

Without any meaningful data that told us that Paregoric was going to kill us, the government put out a big red Verboten sign on Paregoric. Ever since, your humble servant has been in constant pain in my digestive system. There is no substitute for Paregoric as far as I am aware. Maybe the only substitute is suffering. (RELATED: My Life in Pain After the Government Took My Drug)

I am dwelling on this moment because my best friend in Hollywood, Jordan Chinich, passed into eternity about eight days ago. He had been terribly sick for some time after major hip surgery, which had taken seven hours. That was much longer than had been planned. When he got out, he was unsteady on his feet and needed rehab. I took him on board to rehabilitate and exercise.

Then he went back to his own apartment, which was made with exercise equipment for a man in his 50s in poor health. My drivers and I took him to the Cabana Café at the BH Hotel for him to digest toasted bagel, butter, and lox, and then did that again.

The next day we brought him to his hotel room. And then the plan was for us to pick up his father and him and take them both to the BHH for lunch.

But instead, Jordan was dead. Michael told us the horror that this was when we called him to confirm lunch. We don’t know what he died of. Michael’s theory was that his son awakened in the middle of the night. Jordan did not have his walker. He did not have a nurse. He might have hit the back of his skull and then entered immortality immediately.

The police had no idea.

What I know is that Jordan had lived a fantastically difficult life ever since his cruel car crash when he was 15 years old. His ability to read was minimal because of damage to his eyes. His ability to walk was basically nil.

The city of West Hollywood had done him a great favor by creating a dwelling especially suited for persons of lowered ability, and Jordan had lived well within that dwelling. So high credit to West Hollywood.

But what a catastrophic mistake Jordan, a super smart kid and a very lovable man, made by failing to get a walker or a nurse. We in his family loved him. For Jordan to take himself out of our lives accidentally hurts terribly.

This is something that people in ill health should take into account.

I last saw Jordan about one week ago. I was late for lunch as I walked in the door of the Beverly Hills Hotel lobby. “I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting,” I said to him as I shook his hand.

“It’s all right,” that sweet boy said. “I would wait for you until the sun exploded.” And then he smiled a boyish smile.

A Hollywood ending. Now, he is in immortality. I awaken every morning and think of calling Jordan for lunch at the BHH. Then I catch myself and sit sobbing in my room. How can he be gone? And where are my parents? Where is everyone?