Elliott Goldstein was God

ELLIOTT GOLDSTEIN WAS GOD.

Elliott BURKE Goldstein. That was his middle name. Burke.

He wore thick-rimmed glasses, and he called them “artsy”. He’d wear scarves in the summer, and he claimed that people in the world were either entirely good or completely bad. He said there weren’t any in-betweens.  He was sure of it.  Then again, he also wore t-shirts that had the name of the band PAVEMENT sneering at you in big, obnoxious, snobby letters – because he was indie – and you were not.

Elliott Goldstein was a unique asshole. A unique one, because he juggled. He juggled, and he was in a circus club…but he was NOT a clown.  Jugglers were NOT the same thing as clowns.  There was art in juggling; there was dignity, skill, individuality; clowns were just fools.

Elliott Goldstein knew that he knew everything, because, miles away from us at college, he was making films like a professional. People called him the King of Cinematography – and naturally, people bow down to kings, don’t they?  Nineteen years old and already an adult – missing something, though I could never pick out what exactly it was – as though every last fragment of childhood had been ripped from him.

And Elliott Goldstein was my friend.  How did it happen to me? The one moment I wasn’t paying attention, the second my guards were down – he pinched me. That was it. He pinched me. There was a scab left over, but I couldn’t stop itching it...and something about the fresh blood still fascinates me.

The way he would stand up in the middle of a theatre, halfway through the movie, announce that it was “demeaning the art of film”, and walk miles home on the side of the road, by himself. I can still imagine him walking with his hands in his pockets, and his head bobbing up and down, and I think, “God, you are an asshole.” And, as an afterthought, “But a good one, at that.”

I remember when I found his name written in the corners of his notebooks – one name, in commanding capital letters. ELLIOTT BURKE GOLDSTEIN.  I remember when it was really late at night and he’d get slap-happy and giggle.  He rarely giggled, but when he did, it was almost as if I couldn’t feel my toes.  It was that something missing again.

There were the times I would pick up my phone to dial in his poisonous number, my throat choked up. “What’s the matter?” would come his cool, superior voice from the other line. That was it. That was the pinch. Everything would pour out from my innards and soul into that receiver, into him, until I’d run out of emotional fuel and stop. After a moment of quiet thought, he’d tell me, “I DON’T CARE.”

Elliott Goldstein could say anything, and he knew he was always right.

I’d punch him. I’d punch him in my pillows, beating them senseless, smashing his despised face into white feathers, and vow he wasn’t my friend, he couldn’t be.
But don’t they understand?  Don’t they understand that sometimes, when you meet someone, they just do something to you?

Elliott Goldstein. I cannot even recall one thing that he has ever spoken that was sincere – except one. The one honest thing Elliott Burke Goldstein has ever said to me – ever done – was start to cry, and say, “I don’t know.” That was it. “I don’t know, I’m just a kid.”