I wasn’t planning on writing anything about this, but I can’t seem to get around it. A friend of mine died last week.
I met Wyatt, a friend of a friend, last year in DC. At first, he came off as a weird guy—big goofy hair, tattoos and a motorcycle, not a huge hygiene enthusiast. But for a few months, I saw him frequently—at dive bars in Adams Morgan, at a barbeque, at a Halloween party, at vegan brunch, at a cabin in the Shenandoahs—and got to know him a lot better than I know most of my acquaintances.
Wyatt had cowboy boot stitching tattooed on one leg, and argyle on the other. He lost his cellphone and never replaced it, deciding that it was a sign that cellphones are stupid. He sucked at croquet but was exceedingly competitive—trash-talking to a friend’s nine-year-old sister. When some friends drove across the country last summer, he offered them his parents’ house in Dell Rapids, South Dakota so they could see what the place was like. His parents, from whom he obviously picked up his generosity and sense of humor, happily put them up and fed them breakfast.
Wyatt’s default answer was “yes,” which got him into all sorts of crazy situations. One of very few true optimists I’ve ever met, he took the bad with the good and always seemed happy with his life. He was a person who walked the walk; while I and most of my friends took safe paths (grad school, office jobs, etc) he applied to the Peace Corps, ending up with an assignment far from home, in Zambia.
Wyatt had been there for a few months, living with a local family and getting acclimated to the astonishing differences between his comfortable life in America and his ascetic isolation in a hut thousands of miles away from everything familiar. He wrote about it in his blog, talking about the things he missed from home, and the things he hated about Zambia, and the valuable, powerful experience he was having nonetheless.
The night before his and his colleagues’ official Peace Corps induction ceremony, at which he was to speak for the group, they were all celebrating together. Before the next morning, Wyatt passed away.
He was an awesome guy: strange, funny, smart, and kind. He was 24 years old. I and everyone else who was lucky enough to know Wyatt will miss him greatly.
Condolences and more
Wyatt’s blog