It was a typically gorgeous Santa Barbara Sunday afternoon when my cell phone rang quietly in my pocket. The ringer was turned down because I had elected, rather uncharacteristically, to forego Sunday beach and barbeque in lieu of a special physics test review session. I was somewhat distracted, gazing at the shining ocean and glittering beach from atop the low Mesa bluffs through the window and building a proper resentment toward all sciences when the phone buzzed once, short and urgent. Text message. Call me as soon as you can, it read. I knew it was serious. I finished up hastily, gathered my books and walked outside. Looking back on that day, now barely three weeks past, I remember the rapid and conflicting feelings of fear and curiosity that washed over me as I dialed Jake’s number. Are you ready for this? he asked. I shut my eyes.
Corey Brian Balston was born July 29, 1978 and died March 21, 2010 from an accidental overdose of oxycontin, dilaudid and alcohol. He was 31 years old. My brother’s age. My younger brother. His body was found sitting and slumped over on the edge of his bed; a friend, also in the room, was later revived and subsequently recovered fully. I have no idea who that person is. If you think I’m going to take this opportunity to preach to you about the dangers of drug abuse, think again. The fact is Corey died from doing drugs and he was in the prime of his life. That’s the lesson. The news hit me like an electric shock: my body instantly became numb, my legs unsteadied and a high-pitched ringing filled my ears, as if I had dived to the bottom of a deep pool. The walk home from school that day does not exist in my memory or anywhere else.
That night the boys got together at my place. Jake, Chuck, Derek and my brother and I shared barbeque and beer and reminisced. Mostly happy stories; high school adventures, big concerts, downtown shenanigans. A few sad ones. We stood in a small circle just outside my back door, trampling my meager lawn and trying to stay upbeat. A neighbor’s friend was nearby, drunk and fighting with his girlfriend. When I’d had enough and called out for him to give it a rest, he came barreling around the corner only to find himself staring down an edgy pack of five grown men, eager for a distraction and bristling at the opportunity to take out their frustration on this belligerent yet innocent bystander. He wisely backed away after a few tense moments. That night, alone in bed, it occurred to me for the first time that I will never see Corey again in this world and the force of that realization literally shook my frame with grief and I cried until an exhausted sleep overcame me.
My memory of the week following is a blur. I was often angry, usually withdrawn. When I spoke to people my voice carried an edge of warning. My English professor asked us for a review of her class and I tore into mine with acerbic rancor. That night at band practice I imagined Corey’s spirit was there in the room and I dedicated that practice to him, crying through every song. The heart is a more ancient muscle than the brain. It comes from a simpler, more instinctual age. It has control over emotions but it cannot differentiate. The moods of the brain are very specific to circumstances but the deep longings of the heart are diffuse and invade your every moment, color every conversation and darken every dilemma. The heart does not judge, the heart only feels. When I think of my children my heart soars and when I think of Corey my heart hurts. He was the gentlest man I know and a trusting and loyal friend, excited about the world and eager to support your cause. Corey was always hugs, never handshakes. He would introduce me as “the most kickass drummer in Santa Barbara” and he always asked after my girls, remarking on how lucky I am and how beautiful they are. He was the “State St. Stuntman,” taking pratfalls in front of the group just for a laugh. He was the one with the goofy smile permanently affixed to his face. Corey and I made music together, worked together, drank together, moshed together. I am proud and lucky to say he was my friend. He made you feel lucky to know him. His pursuit of his friends’ happiness, sometimes at the cost of his own, is a rare trait in a person and though it may have played a part in his untimely passing is a characteristic by definition saintly. Corey’s was a lost yet noble, loving soul.
There were two memorials for Corey, one on Friday, April 2 in Santa Barbara and one, a bit more private, in Ballard the following day. In the days preceding I had the honor of spending time with Corey’s sister and cousin, both of whom had immediately dropped everything to return home and help their family deal with the disaster. The pure sorrow that radiated from them was often overwhelming. Jake and I did our best to keep them distracted and smiling but their grief suffused our meals, cocktails and conversations. The catharsis of watching them struggle with acceptance of loss was simultaneously acutely painful and indescribably fulfilling. Laughing and crying with people with no fear of judgment is a rare experience for a guy and one that is still very fresh in my memory. Combined, the two memorials bore witness to over 250 mourners and well-wishers. To say that Corey was a popular dude is like saying Newton was pretty smart or Hendrix played a little guitar. Standing up on Saturday and saying a few words for my friend, most of which are also in this piece, was a huge stepping stone for me but nothing could prepare me for facing his mom after the service and sharing my condolences. The memory alone of the fifteen seconds we spent together literally tears my heart. Corey’s infectious good cheer drew people to him like a pet to the dinner table. His capacity for new friends was boundless, his visual and musical art was inspiring and he was just a beautiful person. I wish you had known him.
