The office I sit and type these weekly screeds in used to be where Brian Chavez lived when he was our roommate. For a few years, Brian was a guy we'd see at parties and percussion performances. He was a phenom in the percussion world when he got into college, beating everyone in his class for the top scholarship spot. When my brother and I moved back from our three month trip to hell (I mean Florida), he needed a place to live. Five years ago almost to the day, Brian moved in and helped cheapen our rent by splitting it three ways.

Over the next two years, Brian folded nicely into our routine. Watching movies, listening to music, and the occasional bake in the afternoon sun. We helped move him from the mainstream (his first Christmas with us, he was given Independence Day and Twister by his parents) to the strange and twisted world we hold dear. Brian embraced the difference. He identified with Trent Reznor and Marilyn Manson's gender bending, tortured soul antics and branched off in many directions from there. We were his cheerleaders all the way. When Brian felt like it was time to move away from our house, we understood and let him go.

He moved into a converted separate garage at the Drum House, a rental that had been inhabited with percussionists since the mid-80s. In many ways, he felt it was important to be part of the Drum House history, to be truly a part of that fraternity of musical friends. Brian was still evolving his soul, trying to figure out how to be a part of the world he'd found himself thrust into. We continued to be good friends, hanging out with him in that small space. Many nights were spent talking, listening to music, helping him make sounds and encouraging him to make his own.

There was an old couch propped up against the garage, and we would climb it and sit on the roof. Looking at stars, and watching the lights change on the nearby intersection of Girard and Lomas. Eventually, Lucas (another good friend) and Brian built a ladder for easier access to the roof. The owner of the Drum House decided to sell the property around the same time Brian was graduating from college. After the obligatory last few parties at the Drum House, Brian moved back in with his parents.

After a quite a few months of living with his parents, Brian came by our house and said he had a good idea for our weekly columns. This kind of thing happens from time to time, as everyone has a good story they feel should be told. Brian had a doozy. He was gay, and he was coming out. Many friends in our interlapping circles found out from my brother's column that week about Brian. He was happy because it saved him the awkward attempts at bringing the subject up to the uninitiated.

There are so many different stories I could tell about Brian. The time we went to Magdalena and the V.L.A., and on the way back his truck's temperature gauge blew out. Or when my stolen car was recovered, and I needed someone to drive around and get tires so I could get it home again. Or the magnificent performances he gave as a percussion student, in marimba bands, in his own room playing electronic music he'd created. Hikes in the Sandias. Our first mushroom trip ("I don't think this stuff is working, let's take more"). Nights at Jack's (and then the Copper Lounge). Times spent talking about how bad we both were at finding the right person to try and love.

The New Year's Party this year was at Brian and Mark's. He had met someone, and he was comfortable. And it was the first time I realized he was doing coke. The next afternoon, a group of us watched 2001: A Space Odyssey at his house. I didn't see Brian as much as I should have this year. Our lives were moving in a different directions. He was working at Natural Sound, a record store, and meeting lots of different people--many interesting musicians. He was exploring himself and the world around him. Something we all felt was necessary for Brian to come into his own.

I watched him and a couple others pass around crack one night, all the while telling me how bad the stuff was. From that time on, I'd joke with him "Don't do crack." After a night of too many stimulants, someone gave him what he thought was a Valium. He eventually had to go to the emergency room to get the night out of his system.

A week ago, in the early Sunday morning, he shot up heroin for what we think was his second time. It was a heavy dose, and he felt like he just wanted to sleep. Brian got his wish.

This is not a cautionary tale. A lot of us felt guilty and defeated when we got the news. I could barely stay coherent without breaking down for the first few days this week. But the thing about Brian is this: he was his own person. No one could make him do what he didn't want to do--and no one could change his mind except himself. We always told him to find his place, no matter where it might be. For better or worse, his search is over.

He had tons of friends, and we all loved him in our own ways. Over the past week we've been holding each other, telling stories and toasting our departed brother. For many of us, we never had someone so close and alive to us die. It has left us fragile, shattered and looking for answers. I think this is the feeling Brian was trying to get away from that last night. He just didn't realize how far his journey would take him from us.

Matt Worley will always remember Brian.