During the summer of 1984, we were all young, 17, 18 and 19 years old, barely out of high school and with a world of possibilities ahead of us. Lori, Maureen, Kim, Rick and I. Our lives revolved around our favorite music groups – Duran Duran, Depeche Mode, Culture Club, Madness, OMD, UB40, Psychedelic Furs, Siouxie and the Banshees – going to concerts, buying records (yes, records) and hanging out together at Baker’s Square on 14 Mile and Schoenherr, which became our de facto headquarters. We were there so often, the staff knew us by name and we even had a regular waitress, Kirby (Don’t Call Me Kiersten). We had part time jobs but we managed to spend just about every evening together, whether at Baker’s Square, Putt Putt, the mall or at someone’s house, listening to music, playing games, going for walks, watching videos…whatever we felt like doing. It was a great time, almost perfect. Life was good.
These memories came flooding back Sunday night, on my way home from the Sarah McLachlan concert at Meadow Brook. I heard the text message alert on my phone go off but as I was still immersed in Sarah’s aura and talking with my friend and fellow Sarah fan, Mike (and not wanting to be rude), I decided to wait until I got home to check my messages. Besides, my phone was in dire need of a charge. So when I got home, I plugged my phone into the charger and looked at my messages. They were from Kim. My jaw dropped.
Rick was dead.
Oh my God, Rick died!
Oh my God, oh my God, OH MY GOD.