Memorial day is a bittersweet holiday for me. So many family members, friends and loved ones (even an evil serial killer) have shuffled off this mortal coil in my seemingly short lifetime that I couldn’t visit every grave in a month, let alone a week. Tragedy has visited in every state I’ve lived in, and, in every state, more than once. I have dead friends in several countries.

My first death, my friend Jody, died when he was hit by a car when I was six.

The second and third deaths were my grandparent, both of cancer, one year apart.

I’ve lost two sisters, an uncle and more friends than I care to think about.

So many short lives, a few long ones and only one that I don’t mind.

Every Memorial Day, when death is the topic du jour, I’m reminded of Arthur Gary Bishop.

Bishop worked with my Mother. He was in accounting, she was a secretary. I really don’t know how many times, when my little brother and I were waiting for my mom, Bishop came into the little lunch room, bought us snacks told us jokes or just sat and chatted. He seemed like a really nice guy.

I remember when he finally got caught. My mom opened the paper and there was “Roger Downs” from work: Child molester, serial killing scumbag. She freaked a little bit (a lot), enough to have Dad come into the room to see what was up. Mom wrapped me and my brother in very painful hug and started crying. Dad got a look at the paper and his face went white. I remember that the hug was spooky, but my dad looking spooked, that scared the hell out of me.

Every memorial day, I get another batch of memories of Arthur Gary Bishop. I used to have to rely on my 11 year old brain to cough up the facts but now I can go to his Wikipedia page or any number of online fan sites.

My grandparents are buried in American Fork, one sister in Payson and the other in Sterling. I have friends buried in Utah, Colorado, Washington, Minnesota, New Mexico, California, Oregon, Wisconsin, Texas, Arizona, Nevada; Columbia, Peru, Scotland, Ireland, Nicaragua, Guatemala, Honduras, … so many people I care for still, across so many miles of America and beyond … yet every year, unbidden, comes Bishop, that asshole.

It’s been worse since I had kids. If you think Garp was a paranoid parent, you ain’t seen nothin’.

I hate Arthur Gary Bishop. I’m sick of him being a shadow on my life, a factor in every decision on whether my kids can go out and play. I’m sick of him always being in the shadows of my memory, freaking me out about my kids. I fucking hate the guy, and I’m glad he’s dead.