I don’t know anyone that was really a good friend of Freddie’s, but he was at every party and always seemed to be at the bar anytime we were there. Don’t get me wrong, Freddie wasn’t that bad a guy. He could do a spot on impersonation of Obama and was passionate about Vampire Weekend.
One important lesson I learned about Freddie was that if anyone brought up September 11 when he was drunk, he’d always get on the same passionate diatribe. “Those people on the airplanes were pussies,” he’d slur. “All except the one that crashed in Pennsylvania. What did the terrorists use to hijack the airplanes? Plastic eating utensils. What did the pilots on the plane say? ‘Ok, have at the cockpit. Just don’t scratch me with that plastic knife!’”
If anyone tried to defend the crew or passengers, Freddie would just raise his voice and repeat his argument. This tirade had caused the end to more than one party.
Freddie was a dutiful son and would do odd jobs for his parents like yard work. Last summer, Freddie was mowing the lawn when the mower ran over a plastic knife. The mower flung the knife at Freddie’s abdomen. It lacerated his colon, sending fecal material into his bloodstream. He died at the hospital the next day.
In my own mind, I imagine having that September 11 conversation with Freddie again. I have pointed out to Freddie that his own death is proof that plastic cutlery can be lethal and that the 9/11 victims on the airplane are not as culpable as he argues. To this, Freddie replies that the damage caused by a machine is not the same as what a human could do, making the comparison invalid. That’s just the kind of guy Freddie was.
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