Girl, Interrupted
For most people, murder is a plotline or a movie genre, at most a chilling but compelling headline that glows, sometimes against its will, among other gray headlines in the sea of daily news. This changes when murder happens to you, or to somebody you know. Then the abstract crashes to earth and becomes purely awful. And unlike a plot or a movie, the awfulness doesn't resolve. It keeps opening up into more dimensions of agony and what-ifs for the family and friends of the murder victim--days pass, the death recedes but more dimensions open. Love is eternal, but so, I think, is despair.
I knew Lily Burk, the 17-year-old girl murdered last week in a bustling part of the Wilshire corridor. I worked for many years with her father, Greg Burk, at the LA Weekly, when we were both staff writers. True to her name, Lily was bright and blooming, and had been that way since I met her as a child. She was sweet but complicated, reserved in a singularly teenage way, but very open. I didn't see her often, only when I visited Greg and his wife Deb, but I looked forward to the times that I did--what would Lily look like now? What would she be like? Who would she resemble more? Whenever I saw her--always taller, more articulate and more assured than when I'd seen her last--she made me reflect fondly on growing up. Watching her go happily through what was long past for me made me feel good about the future. As journalists, Greg and I talked constantly about the crap and misery going on in the world, starting with our own workplace; Lily was hardly shielded from that stuff, but she was having fun in the world anyway. She was a good sign. I took it.
Greg has always been a good sign. Bad things happen to good people all the time, but that doesn't make the bad thing any easier to countenance. Greg is smart but self-effacing, a poetic writer, an astute observer of music and other big things, a man of great heart and conscience that are matched by a great sense of humor. Lily was coming into all of that. I don't mean to eulogize her father by speaking well of him, but I can't help but feel that the Greg I knew before last weekend is gone. He has changed. That can't be helped. Greg will be Greg, but different. He will still be a good sign for me, always a good sign, but different.
The last time I saw Greg, he told me an odd but funny story over breakfast. Somebody came knocking on his door about 2 or 3 in the morning; when he opened it, an oddly dressed woman gave him some convoluted account about how her boyfriend or husband had left her after a fight, how she needed to get somewhere to get money or a ride or a connection, and could Greg drive her somewhere? I think that somewhere was a parking lot. "Of course you didn't do it," I said. Greg shrugged: he had. She needed help, he gave it to her. It was his way of refuting that crappy, miserable, closed-up world we talked so much about. It was a risk to engage that world at its word, but Greg did.
Lily was poised to do it, too. Though she's gone--too fast, too violently, much too unfairly--I believe the future that I glimpsed through her is still out there.
This image was taken by flickr user hamedmasoumi. It was used under the Creative Commons license.
