Dan
The crisp California breeze washed away the drudgery of my six-hour confinement within the metal conduit that had taken me from my home in Ohio to the realization of my pipe dreams on the West coast. I was looking for a boy I hadn't seen in seven years. I spotted him immediately; a man with the same long, lanky frame topped off with a head of wild, bright blond hair; the same jovial smile and carefree gait. My old friend hadn't changed one bit.
A few months prior to our reunion in early 2008, Dan Haubert and I started TicketStumbler as an escape from corporate finance and the banality of suburban Ohio, respectively. We went on to join the ranks of YCombinator founders, to hatch a reasonably profitable business, and to meet dozens of extraordinary individuals who are now fixed friends--to name just a few adventures.
In late September of 2009, to the complete bewilderment of the hundreds who knew him, Dan took his own life.
It is difficult for me to articulate the loss I feel as a result of his death. Dan was always the one person I could count on. He was a fixture of indelible character and unwavering dedication; he was like the brother I never had. With his loss, I feel a line has been cut. Dan kept me anchored to a time that had largely faded from memory and an inner child that, like his, found it quite preposterous that two Ohio boys could start a company, get funding, and move to Boston on a whim -- all without somebody finding out we were making it up as we went along. Having lost him, I can't help but feel a bit adrift. For Dan, retaining friends from childhood was natural. He was intensely amicable, enjoyed the company of others, and genuinely loved to help people. For me, though, anchoring the past was no small feat. Dan was my oldest friend; the last remaining relic of a bygone age and my only tie to the simple life of Starcraft and street hockey I'd all but forgotten. We kept in touch over the interim years via email, thanks largely to the fact that he wouldn't leave me alone. He was one of the few people who corresponded with me during my year-long military deployment to Afghanistan in 2007; he outlasted my then-girlfriend by months.
From the moment I found him that awful day to the writing of this sentence, I've been unable to make much sense of this absurd ending to our story.
To Dan, life was an extension of a question we'd been trying to answer since childhood: how do I play video games all night without my parents knowing? Ever the hustler, Dan hacked his way around every rule in the book. Near the end of college, he picked up a second major he knew nothing about just to weasel his way into a cushy internship. Brick walls were mere speed bumps to him. Even if I can't bring him back or comprehend why he left, I can take solace in keeping his spirit alive. So, Dan: I won't be hollowed by the corporate ladder. I'll keep treating life as the game it is. I'll share all the knowledge I gain. And when Starcraft II comes out, I'll trounce some Koreans for you.
Farewell, old friend.
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Epilogue
This post was originally authored in late October 2009 and final edits were in place by November. It was then that I made a promise to myself: I would not post this until it could serve as a form of closure. The three months following its completion were spent dealing with considerable emotional and financial fallout. I called on friends and loved ones (who answered, with a resounding roar of support), meditated, and sought counsel--both legal and emotional.
I don't pretend to understand Dan's fate -- it being so uncharacteristic of the man I knew -- but I once more wake excited for the challenges ahead. My finances are slowly stabilizing, I'm doing fun, challenging work with good people and I've shed much of the anxiety that plagued me in the months following Dan's death. In November, recovery was a mere hope; now, it is a growing reality.
I'd like to once again thank all those who played a part in that recovery: you know who you are. Without you, I dare say this would still be a draft.
"What is that feeling when you're driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? — it's the too-huge world vaulting us, and it's good-by. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies." –Jack Kerouac
