Welcome back. This is where the story gets weird. Where you might be left with questions, or you may even question my sanity. Maybe if you’re reading this, you might ask yourself how I came to grow up in such a transient, and starry corner of the world. One where I somehow got to interact with Tupac! Well, my step dad worked as a sound engineer in films and TV shows and amusement park rides. He worked on the sound stages at Universal Studios. When he and my mother got married, and he brought us to America, I couldn’t believe my luck. I always wanted to know how to get “inside the television” as a kid (what one calls acting) and suddenly we immigrated to the heart of the “inside of the TV”.
Before the Oakwoods became a landing pad for all sorts of industry people, actors, and musicians etc. It was actually a singles apartment complex. In fact, it was once called the largest singles complex with 1,151 apartments, all gated away from the outside world of babies, marriage, and relationship havers (how dare they!). Honestly, these days with the amount of people I know deciding not to have kids and even relationships, I feel like the singles complex could make a major comeback.
But you’re not here for a history lesson on The Oakwoods, so let's get back to Tupac. It had been almost a year since Tupac died. And a year since Chris and the rest of the crew disappeared. A year since my friend Alexia sat me down by the pool and told me Chris was dead too. A year since the whole thing left me feeling unsettled and without closure. I never really shared what I was going through with my parents, but I quietly grappled with the sudden disappearance of my friends and all the people that used to be on the court with us. Death is such a polarizing thing for the living to be left with, and I did not have the tools or the understanding to process that I was quietly suffering.
Tupac's killing and Chris’s disappearance was also this event that had turned into this crazy story that happened to all of us collectively. By “us” I mean all my little circles of friends/neighbors that knew Tupac and Chris or even just saw them around. It was suddenly this larger than reality thing people almost bragged about. And it felt hard for me to listen to, because I had no proper closure or understanding of what actually happened. And of course there were the rumors that Tupac wasn’t really dead. Those started so early on. Noone could believe Tupac had died. And I couldn’t blame them. I could still feel his and Chris’s presence on the basketball court every time I was there. But then I thought, maybe that means they are really dead.
Which brings me to the part of this story that is the reason I was going to go to the grave with it. There was a time when sharing this next part of the story felt like a dangerous thing to do. Felt like I could maybe “disappear” too. Might sound dramatic, but LA gang wars were no joke back then. That being said, if you don’t hear from me after this, call my mom.
My family and I lived on the third floor of our building. We had a corner apartment which overlooked a parking lot. Often my friends would pull into the lot and just honk obnoxiously until I came to the window. One day in particular, I remember I was in our kitchen heating a frozen pizza up in the toaster oven and doing homework. I remember the windows being wide open and my mother not being home. For a teenager, that is the ultimate freedom. Being home alone, and trusted enough to turn any kind of oven on. I suddenly heard a honk come from downstairs. At first I thought nothing of it, because it was short and polite. This did not sound like a new driver, this sounded like a seasoned and considerate driver. The second time, the honks got longer and persistent and someone else in my building yelled “SHUT UP” out of their window. At this point I assumed it had to be one of my friends. I ran to the window, looked down and had the wind completely knocked out of me in an instant.
Chris. Standing outside of a white BMW, his arm reaching into the driver's side to honk. Chris, alive. Not a ghost. A human person, in the flesh. My friend that I had spent the last year quietly grieving, was alive and here. He waved up at me and signaled for me to come down. I threw on a pair of shoes and ran down the stairs faster than ever and into Chris’s arms for a big hug. I remember pushing him away and pinching him. Staring at him as though he were an alien. He just laughed at me, as though we had just seen each other the day before. We proceeded to have a very short and very confusing conversation that has stayed with me and will stay with me forever. Here It is, to the best of my recollection.
Me: I don’t understand, You’re alive!? Where have you been?
Chris: I can’t talk about it.
Me: Are you back?
Chris: no. And no one can know you saw me.
Me: Why?
Chris: I can’t talk about it. But I just needed to see you and tell you that I was alright. We’re all alright. You still playing basketball?
Me: yeah sometimes but I miss playing with you.
Chris: me too. I’m sorry but I gotta go now.
Me: WIll I see you again?
Chris: Probably not.
That was it. That was the last time I saw Chris. The words “We’re all alright” echoing in my ears for years. Who was “we’re all”? Was it the crew? Was it the extended family and friends dealing with the fallout of everything? Or…. was it Tupac?! Could it be he is somewhere out there living his best life on a private island ignoring the world and all the insane changes it has gone through since the time he died? Who knows. I like believing anything is possible. Because I have lived through enough to know that anything is indeed possible. Even playing H-O-R-S-E with Tupac.