• Play against the Lakers and juke NBA point guard Steve Blake
• Hit an NBA 3-pointer
• Play right field in a Major League Baseball game, and catch a pop-up, and easily throw it back to the infield
• Act as well as any actor
• Every girl has, at minimum, a 20% crush on him
He was once adamant that he could taste the difference between all the major water bottle brands—and he did! He also once claimed he could beat anyone in the entire Parks offices at arm wrestling. Mike Schur gleefully egged him on: “Really, Harris? Anyone?” Harris said, “Yeah.” Then Mike beckoned John Valerio—a giant, muscular man with enormous arms—who worked in the editing department. Harris: “Shit! I forgot about Valerio. Come on, man!” Nevertheless, Harris went through with the match, put up a good fight, and was extremely gracious in defeat.
He was also kind of an odd ladies’ man in a way. Not blessed with a tall stature and traditional handsome-guy stuff, he was able to transcend it all by being charming in an adorable/silly way. He was a romantic at heart. He once had a really big date. Someone way out of his league. His move: show up with a box of Russell Stover chocolates. You know, the brand of chocolates you get when you really want to impress a girl. He also once sent an e-vite to a girl’s heart. She declined. He once proposed to a woman on G-Chat. Genuinely.
Here’s some other random things I loved about him: He loved 311 and knew that the bassist’s name was P-Nut. He once had dinner with my parents and me in New York at a fancy restaurant and showed up in a suit that was 5 sizes too big. He looked like a kid dressing up in his dad’s clothes. Afterward, he turned to me and said, “Hey man, can you help me get a suit that fits?” His Tinder profile said, “I make money. I’ll buy you a couch.” We asked him why and he said, “Girls love couches.” He would always order the most unabashedly unhealthy, grossest thing at lunch. The most legendary being a burger he once ordered at Parks that had fried egg, bacon, avocado, onion rings (these are ON the burger FYI), BBQ sauce, and Monterey Jack cheese. He would take 4 things of mozzarella string cheese, line ’em up, and melt it in the microwave. And then he’d eat this with a fork for a snack. I would always try to order healthy. Once I suggested a vegetarian place. After the email went out, I got a text from him: “Guys this vegan place is an atrocity. Please reconsider.” He once left the writers’ office for lunch to eat at his house and texted my brother Aniz that he was “making Chili’s leftovers at home.” It really made me laugh that he chose the word making to describe heating up disgusting leftovers. He loved Chili’s but could never get anyone to join him. He would often go on solo missions. He once went to Chili’s by himself in Encino, and Joe Mande asked him why Encino and not the closer one, in Inglewood. He said, “The good one’s in Encino, you gotta go out to Encino.”
Weirdly, besides Parks, a lot of the stuff we worked on together never made it out into the world.
Another harsh part of this tragedy is that was all about to change. Around the time Parks was ending, I started developing a new project with my friend Alan Yang, another writer on Parks. Immediately, we knew we wanted Harris to help us write it. We were lucky to get him on board, and for the past 5 months or so, he’s been an integral part of this new project. He worked tirelessly and was a leader on our staff, and we were all thrilled to be doing this thing that was actually going forward.
We knew Harris had issues with addiction, but things were pointing in the right direction. He was getting treatment and focused on his career and the opportunities ahead. It all seemed to point in the right direction. We were all about to move to New York together in March to have great fun and make great work. He was excited. I was excited. It all seemed perfect. He just found an apartment on Monday.
Then, I got the most horrific phone call yesterday. I couldn’t comprehend it.
This week I spent a lot of time with Harris. On Monday he drove me to a dinner we were having. His iPod was on shuffle and every fucking song was a different Phish bootleg. I kept forcing him to skip until it was Phish maybe covering another more tolerable band’s song. Then we hit a band called Pralines and Dick. I told him this was particularly bad. He let me know it was his high school jam band and warned me about the upcoming 5-minute funk breakdown. I couldn’t help but enjoy it.
I was so excited for what was ahead for Harris. I knew he was going to really explode after this new project. The little bit of Wittels comedy out there was just the tip of the tip of the iceberg. He had so much more to give, and I was so excited for him. He seemed to be turning things around. He asked me for help finding a nutritionist. He said he knew nothing about nutrition. I informed him that I could confirm Chili’s is pretty bad for you. He even reluctantly ordered the “vegan bowl” for lunch the day before he passed when we were all writing together.
My last memory of him was from that day.
We were punching up a script. In punch up, you’re just trying to beat jokes that maybe aren’t landing. Everyone contributes and tries to beat the joke, and you leave the best one in. But for us, what would happen is, basically, all the writers would pitch something, then Harris would chime in with something so bizarre and hilarious it would either make it in or make us laugh, and we’d agree it was the most hilarious but probably too crazy. That last day, I remember I hit a line and we needed a better joke. I was exhausted. I turned to Harris and just wanted him to fix it so we could move on. I yelled, “Harris! I need you, get off your phone. Make this joke better, fix it please.” And, of course, he did.
Bye, Harris. I miss you, and I’m glad I got to enjoy your genuinely amazing and original presence. I wish I got to you know even more. I hope people reading this realize what an incredibly unique man you were, and what brutal a loss it is for those who knew you and also for those who never had the pleasure. This has been so hard to write because I just keep wanting to add more and more stories and more jokes and more everything, but I’d never be able to finish it. You are far too special to sum up in any kind of piece like this. You were one of the best, and we all will miss you.
Love,
Aziz
01
Day One
He’s dead.
He died.
Your brother died.
He is dead.
I can’t recall the exact phrase. She definitely used some tense of to die and not some other euphemism for permanently gone from your life from this point forward. She didn’t say, “Your brother passed away.” Passing away is too natural, too as it should be. Passing away is what my grandmother did in her sleep at ninety-two after living a complete life. It was sad. And expected.
This isn’t that.
This is brutal and tragic and worthy of Irish keening.
You can’t be dead.
You emailed Mom earlier that night. You described the place you would sublet in New York. You said the Parks and Recreation series finale would make her cry. You said you felt “very fortunate.” You told her you loved her.
You are coming home next weekend to see your niece. She just started walking. You were so excited.
You are supposed to be coming home.
You are supposed to be coming home alive.
• • •
It’s five minutes after five o’clock on February 19, 2015. I’m changing the baby’s diaper in the bathroom of the Center for Hearing and Speech when the phone rings. It’s an unknown LA area code. I press ignore and continue to deal with the dirty diaper.
I’m in a notably good mood. Iris just killed it at her monthly speech therapy session. Mike and I radiate pride and joy. Also, my thirty-fourth birthday is tomorrow, and we’ve actually made plans. Mom and Dad will come over with Star Pizza and birthday cake. Knowing Mom, it’ll be a white sheet cake with white icing from the grocery store. I’ll blow out my candles and make a wish, then Mike and I will put Iris to bed and head to a neighborhood
tiki bar with adult friends to drink colorful drinks out of ceramic mugs that are lit on fire. A truly rare occasion. I’m ready.
The phone rings again. Same unknown LA number.
I have imagined this moment before.
I answer.
“Is this Stephanie Wittels?”
“Yes.”
“Is Harris Wittels your brother?”
“Yes.”
“When was the last time you spoke to your brother?”
“I don’t know. Why? What’s going on? I’m changing my baby’s diaper.”
“Is there another adult with you?”
“Why? What happened? No! Wait. WAIT!”
I scream for Mike down the hall. He runs in and grabs the waist-down naked baby, who is now shrieking.
And then she tells me:
He’s dead.
He died.
Your brother died.
He is dead.
I fall onto the faded blue tile of the bathroom floor, screaming and crying in agony. The detective remains on the phone, reciting her lines about being sorry and needing to ask me a few questions. The baby won’t stop shrieking, so I push myself off the bathroom floor and rush down the long hallway toward the entrance to the building. The few people left at work stare, confused. It’s a lot of emotion for five o’clock on a Thursday. When I head outside, it’s jarring to see that the world is still turning. Everyone is still doing all of the things they normally do at rush hour: driving, talking, texting, honking. The sun is shining. It’s a beautiful day. Tragedy always strikes on a beautiful day.
I fall to my hands and knees again and pound my fists on the pavement. (I literally do this.) Mike rushes outside and embraces me on the ground like a blanket. “Oh God!” he cries.
I manage to continue holding the phone to my ear while the detective provides details:
“…A balloon. A spoon. A syringe cap but no needle…” She asks questions: “Was he suicidal?”
“No.”
“Did he have any medical issues?”
“Yes. He was a drug addict.”
A balloon, a spoon, a syringe. Obviously, he was a fucking drug addict.
“I tried to contact your mother but couldn’t reach her,” she says.
I realize at this point that I’ll have to tell Mom her only son is dead and that would be the most horrific moment of my life—even more horrific than this one.
The detective tells me to call her with any questions, and I hang up the phone.
Still sobbing, I dig the car keys out of my purse and notice the baby isn’t in Mike’s arms. “She’s with Amy,” he says. Her speech therapist. “She’s okay.”
I keep repeating that I have to get to my parents. Mike tries to reason with me that I am in no condition to drive, but I am currently unreasonable and get in the car anyway. Somehow, I navigate the familiar way to our parents’ building while carrying the most unfamiliar sickness in my gut.
Dad is walking up from the parking garage as I pull into the driveway of their high-rise. Once I say the thing I have come to say, his world will collapse like mine just did. We sit on a smooth concrete bench outside the building. He’s right beside me, but there’s a chasm between us. He’s on one side, and I’m on the other. Tell me, how does one say a thing like this? How does a person tell another person his youngest child is dead? How would you write this scene—the scene where I destroy our father with a single sentence? I say it in between sobs. I don’t remember how. His face goes blank. A tear falls out of his eye, but he says nothing.
Mom isn’t home. She’s out with friends: a movie and an early dinner. Dad and I take the elevator to their unit on the seventeenth floor and sit on the couch, shifting between intermittent sobs and silence. I grip the phone, unsure of what to do with it, then pace the floor, hysterical, while Mom enjoys her final moments of ignorant bliss. Mike comes in with Iris, who always gets hysterical when I get hysterical, so I try to stay calm.
Your business manager calls, and I scurry down the hall to Mom’s bedroom. I sit at her desk, so neatly organized, and scratch down some notes on her Houston SPCA notepad.
He is notably kind. He sends condolences. He says he was at your LA home today when the detectives arrived. He says something about a coroner’s notice being affixed to the front door of the house, telling the world you have died. He tells me he doesn’t want to rush me and knows this is a deeply personal time for our family, but that once the news gets out, it will be a runaway train out of our control. He says I need to tell my mom as soon as possible.
I don’t fully understand what he means. You are my brother. You are my brother who died. I don’t realize who you are to everyone else.
Mom is still not fucking home. I don’t know what to do.
I text her and ask where she is. She says she’s at some sushi restaurant and texts me a picture of her dinner.
I ask if she’s playing cards later tonight.
She asks why—what’s wrong?
I say nothing.
It’s 6:45 when the phone rings, less than two hours since I spoke to the detective. It’s one of your best friends, Matt Marcus, who rarely/never calls me. He asks if it’s true. He tells me TMZ leaked the story.
TMZ leaked the fucking story before my mother can find out her only son is dead.
Finally, she is downstairs in the parking garage. She has gotten several texts. Several people have texted her about her son who has died. She calls me, panicked. She asks what’s going on. Her voice teeters on the edge of hysterics, high-pitched and shaky. I tell her to stay put. I’ll be right down. I sprint down the long hallway to the elevator, but she’s already on her way up as I am on my way down, and we miss each other. I get back on the elevator. I sprint back to their apartment.
Dad has already broken the news. I don’t know how.
She wails and wails and wails.
“Why? No! Not my baby! Oh God, NOT MY BABY!”
Her knees buckle.
She melts to the floor.
She pounds the floor.
She curls into the fetal position. She literally does this.
I hold her.
We cry.
People show up within the hour. They say various things at me. I retain none of it. The phone rings and dings a thousand times.
I just sit on the couch, stare at the wall, and cry.
The night goes on for a lifetime. At some point, Mike drives us home. I take one of my Ambien, prescribed as needed, and cry myself to sleep.
02
Before
March 2013
I learned Harris was a drug addict at five o’clock on a sunny Thursday afternoon in March, two years and eighteen days before he died. I was chopping cherry tomatoes in the galley kitchen of our tiny apartment on the bottom floor of a red-brick Houston fourplex. Martha Stewart has this recipe for one-pot pasta—it’s sublime. My wedding was three days away.
Soon, Mike and I would walk down the aisle to the Friday Night Lights theme song and spill our teary wedding vows under a beautiful, handmade lace chuppah. We would eat truffled macaroni and cheese and get day-drunk on the open bar and dance the Hava Nagila to the accompanying mariachi band. We would look around the room every fifteen minutes and be awestruck by all the love in this one place, at this one time. After the wedding, Mike and I would eat leftover wedding cake with plastic forks out of to-go containers in our hotel suite.
But first, I answered the phone.
It was Harris. We texted constantly, but he rarely called unless there was girl drama. I worried for a moment that he was calling to tell me he and his girlfriend (who was coming to the wedding) had broken up. This would have been par for the course, as he’d been in a series of toxic relationships since college that always seemed to end badly. But this relationship was different. It was the first healthy, lo
ng-term relationship he’d ever been in. They’d met at a party nine months before and, from that point forward, were inseparable. Although it couldn’t be possible, she seemed devoid of flaws. In his eyes—and in ours—she was perfect. A funny, creative, kind, beautiful musician who made him mix tapes and put up with—even indulged in—his shitty, fast-food eating habits. What a loss. And terrible timing.
Instead, he told me he was a drug addict.
And that he’d been spending roughly $4,000 a month on pills. Oxycontin, specifically. And that he planned to “work on it.”
Three days before my wedding.
None of this made any sense. We came from a good family. My dad, Ellison, was a doctor; my mom, Maureen, the PTO president. She chaperoned every field trip and minivanned us to and from all of our many after-school activities. We went to summer camps and Disney World. We all genuinely liked each other. Growing up, Harris was my loyal sidekick even though I constantly forced him to dress up in women’s clothing, wear makeup, and play various roles in the plays I’d create to be performed in our living room. Our house was always full of laughter. Much to my mother’s dismay, my dad, Harris, and I used to have epic water fights in the kitchen using the spray hose on the sink. Once, my mother sent us both to charm school. At one point during the culminating recital, Harris and I confidently picked up the water bowls meant for hand-washing and drank out of them like animals. Harris loved that story.
My brother, three years and three months my junior, was the success story every Jewish mother ached to brag about at her weekly mah-jongg game: a Hollywood wonder-kid who landed his first professional TV writing job on The Sarah Silverman Program at twenty-two years old—only six months out of college after she saw him doing stand-up in LA. Although unusual—the stuff that myths are made of, really—it wasn’t all that shocking. If anyone could fit into this dream scenario, it was Harris.
His career trajectory seemed preordained. He told his first joke at three years old. It was the summer of 1988. We were snacking in the kitchen of my mom’s best friend’s house. She mentioned Harris County, where we grew up in Houston, Texas. Reflexively, as if he was put on this earth for this moment and thousands more like it, he shouted, “I not Harris County, I Harris Wittels!” The whole room died laughing. He killed at the age of three.
Everything Is Horrible and Wonderful Page 2