In the summer of 1991, my friend Steve Carlson died in a car wreck on a dirt road in rural Nebraska. He was 26 years old.
In college, we sang at the top of our lungs with Dire Straits’ “Making Movies” album — joyous, unbridled, off-key abandonment. To this day, when I hear a song from that record, I feel like it’s Steve saying hello. It happened today while picking up carry-out from Back Door BBQ. It’s been more than 20 years.
“And all I do is miss you and the way we used to be.”