Montana Dave

They called him Montana Dave, though his driver’s license read David Clarke Foerstner.

All 6’1” of him, built from right angles that somehow softened into something gentle. He moved with the quiet of a man still carrying the last room he was in. Steel-blue eyes that had absorbed too much, even behind whatever smile he’d borrowed for the occasion. That dark brown hair, pompadour-perfect, every time.

Music didn’t just come out of him—it escaped. Singing, ukulele, piano, trumpet. Any instrument close enough to catch what was spilling over.

The soul of a rock star, unaware of the fact.

Spokane’s art school gave him François Haroldson as a neighbor, but the bar, Noah’s Whale, low-lit and close, gave them each other. Over drinks they talked about moving to  Hollywood, and starting  band, wanting a life larger than where they’d started.

The Soundcheck, Hollywood, 1984. That’s the bar where they found me. What happened wasn’t romance—it was older and simpler than that. I was certain of them before I had any reason to be.

Montana’s shyness was just his honesty wearing a different coat. 

We were two people made of the same raw stuff, all feeling and thin armor, trying to stay upright in the noise.

Hopeless romantics, and drawn, reliably, to exactly the wrong people. Yes, that was us.

Our favorite drink was gin and we loved Alice Cooper, and the promises of friendship we were absolutely going to keep. We meant them. Every last one.

Montana. A true brother from another mother. Then, now, always.