I met Leo when I was 14 years old. He was no more than 17 himself but I took him for a grownup. 

Turned out Leo had run away from boarding school in the English countryside and somehow made his way to the Khyber Pass. Leo found a brotherhood of freedom fighters and he lived with them. He wrapped his head with the local headwear, his swarthy countenance providing the height of camouflage. He easily picked up their languages. He walked with them over mountain passes. He helped carry their ammunition and he had photographs to show.

Leo was Mexican and Lebanese, tall, handsome and clever he was a chameleon by default and his truths were hidden in plain view. 

Years later in our twenties Leo and I found we’d both moved to NYC. We traded tales of our adventures thus far and those ahead. We were siblings in our wanderlust. He showed me his photographs and they were arrestingly touching, enough to make one cry. 

Next I saw him, another decade on, was at a wedding on a hot day in August. I didn’t question why he was sprawled at the base of a tree, with his bowtie askew while the party pulsated on around us under pristine white tents. We sat beside each other on the mossy ground leaning against the oak and we caught up on our escapades. I didn’t pay attention to the sweat beads inching down the sides of his face. I never knew Leo was a heroin addict.

One year later Leo was discovered with a bullet in his head in a hotel room in northern Pakistan. The police declared this a suicide.

Whatever the details of his demise Leo’s life had been a gambler’s extended suicide. When I heard the news I didn’t cry. I had always known his would be an early death. I miss him and the thought of him inspires me to keep gambling.