Somehow I knew.
I have been trying to be quiet the past few days – away from the news (I just expect a bunch of pointless blather-fight between now and mid-March, so why tune into it?), mostly off this particular machine, letting myself feel my own inner rhythm for a change, etc. I guess that’s why I knew in advance when the Greek called just now to tell me his dear 80+ year-old friend Gordon passed away last night – this after a precipitous two-month downward slide.
Each morning, the Greek would scoop a portion of the special restaurant stock remains that Gordon used to feed an assortment of ferals and deliver daily portions to various spots. Every evening, he would swing by a restaurant where Gordon was a minority investor to pick up a meal for his friend to eat instead of the bland inedibles at the hospital. I kept thinking, from his daily reports, that Gordon was deciding to die. And last night I had a middle-of-the-night startle about this, but didn’t mention it at breakfast.
Now, the truth is this is a blessing – things were not heading any place good and Gordon’s LA-based daughter was dealing with her father in 24-hour care up here and her mother in 24-hour Alzheimer’s care down there. Gordon had a long and interesting life in which – tough old Limey – he did pretty much as he pleased, from the time he came to America with a wife and a job he'd gotten through a war buddy's copy of the Cleveland yellow pages. When he had enough money to buy a car, he drove straight to the Northern California coast, and offered his machinist skill for free. "If you like my work at the end of the week, you can pay me. If not, that's OK." He got paid for the week and stayed with that shop for thirty years, until the owner sold it, with the insistence that Gordon be counted as a 10% owner. Later, he turned his skill to extravaganzas, like multiple Rolling Stones sets. He was a cantankerous guy but, from all reports, a sweet and good father, who has left his daughter a solid foundation of security. As for the Greek, he was positively heroic these last ten weeks – staying true to something that brought him immense emotional anguish, fury at hospitals, and kept him awake most nights. But still, I am sitting here crying for, I am certain, reasons that are far more complex than death.
Theirs was a friendship – born under a gaping age difference – that argued for reincarnation. They bonded the first day they met, were always incredibly loyal to each other. Gordon taught the Greek machine skills. The Greek opened a working class bloke’s world to art and artists. But when they were together, they barely conversed. It was a thing that lived in shared silence. Gordon never warmed to me and I felt fine with that. I understood why he preferred to have the Greek to himself – and I just allowed space for it. I made a point of keeping good dark chocolate in the cupboard for when Gordon came by for espresso, but would make myself invisible when he did so that he could have his pure buddy fix.
Last evening, the Greek had taken a bottle of wine with him to the hospital at Gordon's request. The doctor was there as the Greek arrived, so he asked if it would be alright to give Gordon some wine. “Sure,” said the doc. And so he broke out the wine and two glasses. They shared a toast, and sipped their wine in (their usual) silence. Then said goodnight.
Life...
