I didn’t see my roommate on the morning of April 9, 1994.
I was in Sydney then, a junior in college, doing a semester abroad. It was a Saturday.
One of two things had happened:
1) I’d gotten up long before he had and gone out to run errands without his noticing; or,
2) he’d been out all night with an Australian girl he was unsuccessfully trying to sleep with, and I’d left the house before he got home in the morning. This situation is more probable, but I don’t remember for sure.
Either way, my roomie walked into the kitchen and one of our housemates said, “Kurt’s dead. He killed himself.”
– awkward pause –
“What?” my roomie said, aghast. “But we were just drinking beers with him the other day! He seemed perfectly happy.”
– another awkward pause –
“Oh! No. Kurt Cobain killed himself. In Seattle.”
And thus it was that a young American abroad learned that one of his officially anointed generational spokesmen was dead … and also that he wouldn’t be getting a gift 4.0 for the semester.