I spent an entire month of the year with Wyatt for 4-years in the California desert. I have so many stories that I could fill up this whole blog and there would still be some left over. A lot like my pops, actually.
For the other 11-months I didn’t get to see him, we’d talk on the phone or text. I was at graduate school at the University of Florida from 2013-2015.
When I first got there I asked him if he wanted to come visit for a football game. “Florida Football,” he said in a tone that suggested he was intrigued before finishing with, “I’d rather eat a bucket of fucking razors.”
I laughed so hard.
I’d get texts from him asking if I was “taking my crazy pills.” Asshole. He walked me through the process of buying a used bike from the 1980s, fixing it up, and selling it to a “sucker.” When I told him I flipped it for $80, he responded, “I would have gotten $160..sucker.” Asshole.
I got a job as a sports photographer. I hustled my way into the gig, which made my pops, brother, and Wyatt very proud. I would send the three of them photos from different events.
My pops always fired up and would look for me on the sidelines, shooting me a text, “See you dude! Blue hat?!” I’d send him shots from the game and he would tell me how awesome the photos were and then send them to all his friends and my family. Wyatt would say, “Looks blurry.” Asshole.
November 7, 2015. A shitty fucking day.
“Dave Wyatt just died please call me.” That’s the text I got from Shaynee on that day.
I was on the sidelines shooting the Florida vs Vanderbilt football game. There is no reception in the stadium, especially when it was at capacity with nearly 90,000 people.
I had felt my phone vibrate toward the end of the third quarter, but assumed it was sports updates that randomly pushed through in a moment of cell reception clarity. There was a timeout that occurred late in the fourth quarter after Florida’s Jordan Sherit laid a monster hit on the Vandy QB.
I went to look at my camera, not my phone. I wanted to see the image I captured. “Did I get the shot!?” Oh yeah. I fucking nailed it. I knew my mentor would be so proud when I posted the gallery of the game later that night and he saw the hit that jarred the helmet loose and spit and mouth pieces flying as a result.
I figured the phone wasn’t a big deal. I finished photographing the game and made my way back to the press room. I took apart all of my camera gear, ejecting the SD cards from the camera bodies before placing them and all of the glass back into my case. I hooked my laptop up, plugged in the SD card reader, and placed my phone next to it.
There were 7 missed calls from Shaynee. She NEVER calls. Ever. I went to see if there was a voicemail, but checked my text first. I remember seeing the words “Dave Wyatt is dead.”
I didn’t freak out, or cry, or run to call Shaynee. Instead, I calmly placed my computer in my backpack, grabbed my camera case, and started walking toward Weimer Hall. My house was equal distance, but for some reason I made my way to this strange building on the university’s campus.
It is three stories and has this crazy atrium in the center with a courtyard. There is weird art. Sounds are amplified and accompanied by echoes. I sat on a bench near some foliage.
My chubby little fingers clicked Shaynee’s contact and the line started ringing. She was crying when she answered. She gave me the details – a heart attack at age 46.
It didn’t compute. Not Wyatt. He rode a bike up the California coast. He didn’t drink soda. He didn’t smoke cigarettes. He was always moving around, never staying still. How could this happen?
We hung up and then I lost it. The sound of my disbelief mixed with ugly crying and screams were amplified by the atrium. It echoed for passersby. I reached for my phone and started going through all of our texts and the voicemails he had left.
I missed a call from him earlier that week. I had planned to call him back on Sunday. Fuck.
The celebration of his life was going to be held in Los Angeles at the Fonda Theatre, an iconic music venue. I had no money, though. Literally, zero. I didn’t realize the significance of it at the moment. It didn’t feel real.
I told Shaynee I couldn’t afford it. She said, “ You have to be here.” My lack of accepting Wyatt’s death was obvious to her. I think she saw me using my financial situation as a way to escape reality for a little longer.
She knew I would never be able to live with myself if I didn’t go. So she did the most Shaynee thing ever: Used her Southwest points to fly me from Florida to L.A. I told you, Shaynee is the best.
I have been to funerals and “celebrations of life” but nothing compares to Wyatts.
They were handing out Sharpies with his name on them, pins and stickers made out of his art were everywhere for the taking. The Fonda’s marquee said, “Godspeed ‘DMFW.’ So let it be written, so let it be done.” There were food trucks and beer. There were old friends and new friends.
It was packed. Dave Mother Fucking Wyatt (DMFW) was a legend!
There was an open mic setup on stage. People got up and told stories. REAL STORIES. Not the bullshit you usually hear…”They were a person of high faith…blah blah blah.”
I got up and talked about how I thought he was an asshole at first, using those exact words. Then I talked about how I grew to idolize this guy. How I was mesmerized at how he squeezed so much out of life and loved so hard.
All of the people that spoke told the best stories, and they all carried a similar theme.
People plastered DMFW NASA inspired stickers on the Hollywood Stars in front of the theater. They wrote messages with sharpies all over LA. His friends sent out merch, which was a black t-shirt with DMFW written in white letters in the ACDC font, one of Wyatt’s favorite bands.
He literally was OOZING out of that place. It was an actual celebration of his life, and really quite magical. You connected with everyone in that room. The people talking about him were engaged with one-another, trading stories and enraptured by each other’s wild tales of our friend.
There was none of that bullshit small-talk you might have engaged in at other funerals.
I remember at my pop’s service people didn’t know what to say, and I get that. Death is not a comfortable thing. But I got questions like, “How is New York?” I would have much rather heard a story about my pops. Some adventure or memory a person had with him.
When Shaynee called me to come work the show that next year I told her I couldn’t do golf carts. It would be too weird. She said I needed to be there and got me a job moving ice and water.
Wyatt would have clowned the shit out of me for taking the manual labor job over the Cush golf cart gig. He would have said I was being soft, but I know he wouldn’t have been able to go back out there at night without me. Not so fresh after.
Going out to the desert was awesome, though. Shaynee was right (of course). I wore my DMFW shirt and it was like having an all-access pass to meet the coolest people. I got to hang out with Derek, Jimmy Reno, Aissa, Jason, and so many more. These were Wyatt’s PEOPLE.
He always talked about getting me to come to KROQ Almost Acoustic Christmas and drink beers. “My friend Aissa will hook us up. Drink beers. My buddy Jimmy Reno will be there. Derek, of course.” I now know all of these people, and Wyatt is the link that binds us.
They all have the fucking best stories of him, and I love that they tell them so freely and often. They give off the same kind of cool vibe as he did, but of course there is only ONE Wyatt.
Living in New York I see Yankee’s hats everywhere now. At this moment I am thinking about Wyatt telling me about taking his Harley across the country and stopping along the way to see MLB stadiums and catch games. His goal was to go to all the stadiums. He loved baseball. My dad loved baseball.
This might come as a shocker, but the only things I know about baseball are that the games are fun as hell and they are the only place where a beer and hotdog truly live in harmony and make each other better. *
Miss you so hard, buddy. I hope they enjoy this book of fiction.
