Kevin Eckenrode, 25, who recently moved from Scranton to Harrisburg, was allegedly dangling his girlfriend, 23-year-old Rachel M. Kozlusky, from a small window of his high-rise apartment Saturday night.  He lost his grip, causing Ms. Kozlusky to plunge 23 stories.  Harrisburg police said she fell through a plastic skylight in the building’s portico and suffered massive head and internal injuries.  She was pronounced dead at the scene… So said the Scranton Times from Monday, February 27, 2006.

Several days later, it was discovered that with their judgment and reason devoured by alcohol and narcotics, Rachel wanted to be lowered out so she could touch the window below theirs with her feet-or so claimed Kevin before being charged with criminal homicide.  There are more gruesome and unpleasant details about Rachel’s fatal injuries and how she was found that I don’t wish to dwell upon…

Sad.  They were celebrating their recent engagement… It was eight days after Rachel’s demise before I realized that I knew her.  Sad.  I didn’t know her last name until she died…

When I was 23-almost 24-I moved out of my parents’ house to the Greenridge section of Scranton.  My apartment was small and cheap: two rooms and no windows.  It was dark; it was crowded.  I loved it, though it was lonely.

I found reprieve from my solitude at Mickey Gannon’s, a little Irish pub across the street.  Almost every Thursday evening I would meet my friend Joe there for pitcher night.

But Joe and I didn’t just go there for the cheap beer.  No.  We also went there on Thursdays to flirt with the aforementioned Rachel.  She was a petite thing, with sandy brown hair, a light scar on her cheek, and a wonderful figure.  She was beautiful in that rugged-on-the-outside, soft-on-the-inside sort of way, and she always smiled at us in a gently patronizing manner, as if to say, “You two are a pair of arrogant asses, but you’re not so bad.”

Rachel always took care of me and Joe.  If we drank four pitchers, she’d charge us for three, or forget to tally in an order of fries or wings.  She served us courteously and tolerated our pompous rants about writing, music, and cinema.  We tipped her well for her patience, her raised eyebrows, and her smirks.

There was one night, when for whatever reason, Rachel’s breasts were looking particularly splendid.  After she took our order, I turned to her and said, “Oh Rachel, just wanted to let you know that your tits look magnificent tonight!”

She blushed as her chin hit the floor.  Her gracious response to my swine-like comment came hours later.  Beneath the smiley face that she always drew on our check was a stick figure with a comically disproportionate bosom.  Poise in the presence of chauvinistic barbarism.

Such an attitude is what prompted me to give Rachel my phone number.  When I handed it to her, she looked at me with eyes that said, “Thanks. But I’ll never call you.”

I wonder if Joe remembers the color of her eyes…

And even though Rachel never called, I never cared, because I never felt rejected.  She always made Joe and me feel welcome.  She accepted us for the prima donnas that we were.  She never launched an ounce of scorn or revulsion at us, even though we deserved it.

So, Rachel, if you can read this from where you are now, thank you.  Thanks for your smile, for your grace, and thanks for being the willing audience for two over-the-top, vulgar assholes who were lost without a compass in their early twenties.

May you rest in peace and know that I will always cherish the memory of your stick figure with the huge boobs.

###

P.S.  On Friday, January 12, 2007, Kevin Eckenrode was found guilty of involuntary manslaughter.