To say I knew Joe Sodd III, would be fairly accurate. It
wasn’t an acquaintanceship- it couldn’t’ve have been. It was more than an acquaintanceship,
but definitely shy of friends. If we saw each other on the street, there would
have been immediate recognition in the form of a two syllable handshake- you know the kind where you clasp palms
wrapping the thumb, then clasp the four fingers without the thumb- who knows,
it might’ve reached the third syllable of bringing it in with the pat on the
back. It was the early 2000’s, the sun seemed bolder then.
The connection between he and I, lives in the vivrancy of my
sister, Annie. Now, a mother, wife, and impeccable occupational therapist with
far more (or just different) responsibility than I could ever imagine taking on
myself, but back then: an exceedingly fearless socialite with the propensity to
call the shots, stepping to the most courageous of frat bros who might’ve said
something politically distasteful and shutting down whatever liquid bravery
they thrived on at the moment. My sister was, and is, an amazing force to be
reckoned with.
Annie and her group of surly female confidants traveled evening
parties like debutantes social-circle hopping a gala in the Hamptons. They didn’t
give you’re their presence, they graced you with it. Standing opposite to them,
more than not, were the male division of my sister’s friends. What appeared to
be lead by a tall ex-hockey prodigy by the title of Nick, the two groups of
young folk combined seemingly like a
homemade Voltron. They biked day and night, took friendly to newcomers, and
were the antithesis of MN Nice in that their circle always had a spot for you.
Joe occupied an arc of that circle. I had run into him on
numerous occasions during evening galavanting. In that time (2002 – 2008), I was
known for throwing parties that would soon turn into remakes of Animal House.
In these events the cops were always on cue (3am), the obligatory fight betwixt
a Minneapolis South Side division of large white gentlemen and a Minneapolis
Southwest Side division of large white gentlemen arrived religiously before or
after the cops, and always- seemingly always, love would find its way amidst two
college campus wayfarers that would never have acknowledged the others
existence had they not stumbled paths at said party. Friends, Love, &
Fights (Beats, Rhymes, & Life) These occasions served like wedding
receptions. As my run-ins with Joe became more frequent, my understanding for
his character became more familiar. You come
to understand people differently amongst chaos rather than a controlled
environment. (i.e.: house parties, special education classrooms, concerts,
sociology classes, yelling at a dinner table, school buildings, a coffee table I’m
sitting at, etc.)
He would greet me, usually at the beginning of the night
whilst the Annie & Nick Gang funneled into my apartment building. Standing
short, but solid as a fire hydrant, Joe had the physical makings of an
unbeknownst Peter Parker. If news hit the
next day that a real-time Spider-Man was seen webbing thru downtown St. Paul, I’d
take no surprise in finding out it was he. Beyond the aesthetic, his
demeanor and cadence struck me genuine as friend or family would. I’d like to think perhaps he and I were
somewhere nearer to friends than acquaintanceship, alas…
Summer 2008
I awoke in a closet I rented from a large house in
Dinkytown. Always on the road or crashing in another city or campus, I didn’t
necessitate much, and a closet was pretty much all I needed at the moment for
me and my belongings. While clicking & photoshopping away furiously on a
poster for an upcoming show, my mother called for the 2nd or 3rd
time. I can screen the first, where the
call is usually about taking the dog out or a leftover dirty dish after family
dinner. A 2nd or 3rd usually prompted something more
urgent… naturally.
Sobbing sordidly from the get, my mother poured out to me “You
remember Annie’s friend, Joe??? He was found killed on a street outside the Triple
Rock!!!”
She fills me in to a few more details I possibly could have
done without, but nonetheless assisted the understanding in what the fuck just
happened. My heart ran a furious several beats and then subsided. Our
conversation ends, I go back to the photoshop at the same pace I was before being
informed of the disaster. I’m able to focus for a few minutes more on the graphic
design before me, beaming off an antiquated computer screen. I stop.
Nothing is flat. Everything plays on a spectrum. Joe Sodd
III’s death expectedly struck me as the loss of a family friend. I take no
pause in the expected if I’ve already experienced such a loss or event. What
blindsided my nerves to a boggling hault was something else. The murder struck
me as something oddly closer.
I quickly gathered one of the two pairs of shorts I owned,
put on my Adidas, hopped onto whatever fixer-upper bike I was riding at the
moment and sped to Riverside Plaza. I cruised near the area Joe’s life had been
claimed. Locked up the bike and walked the entire neighborhood- every level of
the plaza, as if I’d find out what the hell happened the night before. Nothing…
it was as it always was… as the West Bank and Riverside Plaza had been my
entire life since I arrived to Minneapolis in 1986… it still wreaked of home.
The familiarity in every crack, crevice, hint of racial
disparity and socio-economic suppressant conjured damn near two decades of my
existence on earth. Today, it sounds absurd, but then I felt an accountability
to figure out the “why” in the equation of Joe’s life being taken, due to the
trivial fact that he fell where I was raised.
There’s a specific tragedy in knowing the street, the past
friends that used to occupy that stretch of road, and the past friend that was
murdered on that same surface. I've always known this, however it bares little to no resolution being reminded backdrop of my childhood
rests on a hairline trigger and a thin halo. No one is ever truly safe, and we
willingly take the risk everyday by simply daring to live.
I digested the event to a summer of reckless abandon, while misunderstanding
my own processing of death with heavy exchanges of booze, coffee, writing, and
impulse. There’s never a moment you need to tell someone you don’t give a fuck.
When the life of someone you know is
untimely ripped from the fabric of tangibility and left only as a memory in
which time does its damndest to fade with each passing second, I’ve found
myself to fashion a glaze of apathy to the world… until it strikes me while
sitting in front of a laptop or piece of paper, to write.
Summer 2015
I have no place to bare the tattoo of “III” in memory of Joe
Sodd III, because I didn’t know him like that. However, I find myself still
dealing and walking with his memory to better understand him and the events
that transpired. On day’s baring absolutely no hint of him, my mind will
sometimes sharply turn to thinking “Shit. I swear I’ll see that kid biking
around the corner any day now.” I can say now, that unexpected death is
unbelievable to an extent. There isn’t a day or moment you’re truly over it,
and there isn’t a day or moment you should be over it.
Loss is something we live with, not something we move pass.
It’s in how you live with loss that defines who you are and the legacy you will
lead. Honest to Godly, I have no effing clue as to where it will lead me, but I’ve
come to grips with the fact that there will always be a part of me that won’t
go without writing about that kid.
