Appalachian American Ennui: June 2013

Ray McAlexander Peek, C.P.A., J.D.
Attorney at Law

Ray Peek and I entered law school at the same time. The same time as Dan, Tara, and my library buddy, Ernie Baker, who once worked as an announcer in Memphis in the radio industry and who had a voice like god himself. He died about the same time as Ray. One could say that the forces of nature kept them alive just long enough to take and pass the Bar Examination and nurse their respective practices into operation. I don't try to look for the justice anymore. It's not there. Instead, there's just what is and whatever result it brings.

There were many others who shared this grueling, depleting and exhausting scholastic experience with me. Paul, for example, who was married to Wendy, Gary, who has done well since then. There was Bobby and Jim and Denise, . . . et alii.

Ray worked for the United States Government. He was incredibly smart, though his demeanor discounted it almost completely. He was a rotund, cigar smoking sports-fan the likes of which you might catch on a crowded couch in a Sunday Budweiser commercial at halftime. He was yet another avid U.T. fan; his alma mater. He had a brother who died young. I remember that. Now I especially remember that in view of Ray's death, at 33, from the total destruction wrought upon his body by a combination of deadly diseases that were about to flourish unfettered because of Ray's infection with the AIDS virus.

Ray once told me that he had the key to completing law school at night without going mad: "two beers." The whole experience is now a blur to me. I return to it mentally but cannot really grasp the difficulty in presented in attempting to earn a four-year law degree at night, work a full schedule during the day, and raise a family during the time left over. This difficulty that would narrow the graduating members of my class to less than half of those entering as first year students. I don't know the percentage of those who passed the bar exam.

I almost forgot -- one night after classes Ray and I raced each other down Third Avenue. I was driving a Chevrolet Citation and he had some kind of weird-looking Nissan. All in all Ray should have beat me handily. However, I had an Ace up my sleeve, and that was this. As we sped down third, side by side, I let him know quickly that I had some kind of weird determination that would make my victory inevitable, even if it meant brushing up against him to get ahead. And that's exactly what I tried to do. When he saw that he was going to either get hit or run into the side of an abandoned storefront, he caved. I won. I knew I'd win. Ray was from Nashville; lived there all his life. I, on the other hand, was from East Tennessee, where we began negotiating sharp curves and thrill hills at twelve. From that point on we realized that the name of our law firm should rightfully bear my name first. But, "Whetstone & Peek," didn't hit the cadential mark, so we settled for, "Peek & Whetstone" for our Moot Court moniker. So far as I know Ray never got his name billed any further than that, though he did work for a time for Finch & McBroom in Nashville. Ray McAlexander Peek, Attorney at Law. I've Googled this in all of its possible variations. Nothing came up. I guess that's getting ready to change now. I trust that my lingering affection for this eccentric, larger-than-life man will justify his first entry into the broadband. And I'll make this statement for you, ol' pal: Ray was not gay, though no particular group is either more or less deserving of the horrors that await the activation of this biological terror. However, Ray would have been among the first to stand up for their gay civil rights -- he was progressive and left-leaning, which I admired. He apparently got infected with the HIV virus through a blood transfusion several years earlier. I sincerely believe that the activation of "full-blown AIDS" probably began in his first year of practice.

In any event, in those days a Bar applicant first learned whether he passed or failed the Bar examination by effectively camping outside the L&C Tower in downtown Nashville in the early morning hours of the results' release. We had both taken the exam in the summer of 1990, so, in the following October Ray and I awaited the posting of the names of those who had passed. I had an almost sickening anxiety and from the looks of things, Ray was not far behind. A woman finally appeared with a about four to six pieces of standard paper, all conjoined with tape. She then posted them and the search and scanning could got underway. Students from my night school, Vanderbilt, U.T, and the University of Memphis Law School were present, biting nails, pacing, smoking cigarettes, holding Styrofoam cups of morning coffee. It was the fall of 1990. I was 29 years old.

When we saw our names printed on the face of the huge document, we embraced each other, exchanging bear hugs. Ray's fat belly pushing up against me. I wonder if the horror had hitched itself to Ray's biology by then. A fit comparison would be a liberalized Archie Bunker with AIDS. That's pretty close.

Fast forward to my practice. There was Lionel, Rich, John, Glen, Randy and Rick. There was Brenda and Cheryl. And there was Dan Garfinkle, the last unschooled attorney in Tennessee, who offered me the following advice for quoting a fee: "Quote twice what you're worth and get half up front." And then there would be Donald Givens and his victim, Ron Wallace, Millard Curnutt and his victim, Hugh Huddleston, Donald Ray Middlebrooks and his victim, Kerrick Majors. And Ricky Vaulton. Many others.

After Ray and I went our respective ways and dove into the practice of law, we met up again in Judge Wyatt's criminal courtroom one morning. Ray was awaiting his case to be called from the docket. He looked different. He looked scared. Terrified. Gaunt. He had lost his confident and obnoxious gregarious countenance. He had started smoking cigarettes. I found that odd even though I knew he liked cigars. I never saw him alive after that. In fact, I never saw him at all after that because his casket was closed. The closest I ever got to him was when I, as pallbearer, helped carry his casket to his grave. I remember that the casket was so utterly light. A tiny band of vicious monsters had devoured my buddy's body and had left in their wake only remnants of what was once an intensely animated character, who wanted to become a lawyer. And did. I remember that his father was given the option of viewing the body of his son before the morose, rolling trip to the cemetery began. His dad, who had divorced his mother years earlier, had not seen his son during his last chapter of his life. So, when he elected to view his body it was probably a mistake. I remember he had to be helped back to his seat. The pallor of his skin said it all. He shouldn't have looked. It had indeed been a mistake. Or not. Maybe there was some kind of postponed psychological utility that helped his father cope during the time to come. Who am I to say? I, too, have been haunted by horrific images. They're permanent.

I had learned that Ray was having health problems after I moved to Morristown in March of 1992. In fact, I called him during one of his hospital stays. His explanation of his condition does not register with me at all now. The only thing of which I am absolutely certain is that he did not reveal the true etiology his disease to me. I even sent him the latest edition of Playboy magazine during his stay. That must have been anywhere between 1992 to 1993. I know this because I first learned that he had AIDS in March of 1994 while I was engaged in a fierce battle with my own demons in a drug and alcohol rehab south of Knoxville. For some reason I had called to check on him from a payphone in the hallway, (I must have known he was back in the hospital), and his mother levelled with me; "Paul, Ray has AIDS." My heart galloped and my mouth went dry out of vicarious terror for my friend. He would not win his battle. I won mine. But the two should not be compared as I have ostensibly done here. In any event she advised that I should call back because his condition was dire. She was sitting with him in the hospital room when I talked to her. Ray was no longer capable of speaking. Toward the end of the conversation she dropped the phone and screamed out his name. He might have died at that moment for all I know because the next thing I remember is receiving a message from her notifying me that Ray had died and that she wanted me to come to Nashville to serve as a pallbearer.

At the funeral service I learned from Ray's best friend that he had begun losing his cognition in the year prior to his death. At Ray's service he recounted his good times with Ray, and closed with this:
"Peace, Ray."

I concur absolutely.

"Peace, Ray McAlexander Peek, C.P.A., Attorney at Law, Great Friend."