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Sunday, November 8. 2009

Remembering an Old Friend

Just got back from a trip to the store with my friend John. “So, why is that news,” you ask? It isn’t really, except that as I was walking in the door I had this really great idea to write about, which has now escaped off into the nether regions of my cranium.

Instead, this starts over a bowl of Neapolitan ice cream while trying to remember that great idea. This all started not with a trip to the store, but with a trip to Dan’s house so I could retrieve my phone.

The nitty gritty of it all is that this story begins late Saturday morning when Dan, Eric and I planned our trip to our friend Ray’s memorial service. Which is how my phone came to be at Dan’s place.

The memorial was at the La Jolla Museum of Contemporary Art so we car-pooled and got there 40 minutes early. Good thing too because parking in La Jolla is nuts.

A word or two about Ray: there are people who, when they die, we grieve and miss them and we can say everything nice about them that we can remember, and often enough it’s quite a lot. It’s a rare person indeed that doesn’t have virtue enough to be remembered well.

Ray, we called him “Gray Ray,” transcended that. Yeah, we all have our fond and loving memories of the man, but more than that, Ray was a true pillar of our community.
 I remember the day someone told me Ray was seriously ill in the hospital. “Gray Ray,” I asked? Yep. It didn’t seem possible. He always appeared to be as strong as a young bull.

Shortly after moving to California I started hanging out with a little Fellowship in Mira Mesa. Ray was a part of the Fellowship. I didn’t think much about him at the time. He was, after all, from New York and I generally tend to hold that against people. You know New Yorkers: they tend to want you to know they know more than you and because they grew up in New York, they were not only tougher than you, they were also far more sophisticated. That’s been my impression anyway, true or just plain wrong.

Ray, as it turned out, wasn’t quite like that. He had all the mannerisms of a New Yorker, had the semi-loud voice New Yorkers talk in, but he wasn’t all machismo and attitude. He was, for the most part, gentle. Make no mistake; if you were full of shit, he’d let you know, but usually in a kind and gentle way.

Over the years I’ve gotten to know Ray. Never been in his circle of close friends but when ever I saw him he was a reassuring presence in the world. You see, Ray didn’t tell people how to live a good life, Ray led by example. And that’s what made him a pillar of the community. We could call Ray a “Guru,” and not in any jesting way, although if you want to yank someone’s chain in this Fellowship, just call him or her a guru.

Funny thing is, a lot of people wanted to emulate Ray and this was a guy with serious health issues, so serious in fact, mine seem rather mild in comparison. One day, a few years ago, I was whining about my heart problems and how tough life is and after a few minutes of this Ray pointed to the lump in his chest where there was either a defibrillator or pacemaker installed (can’t remember which) and said, “Just wait ‘til you have to walk around with one of these sewn in your chest.”

Just when I had a good pity party going, had people ready to sympathize and buy me lunch or something, along comes Ray to put it all in perspective. DAMMIT!

Besides the pacemaker and defibrillator (he had both at one time or another), Ray had a liver transplant. And yet he had what appeared to be the most pleasant and enviable life, with a kind and loving wife and two sons. The heart problems, liver problems, those things that can bring some people to their spiritual knees, were blessings for Ray. At least it appeared he treated them that way. They gave him years more to enjoy with his loved ones.

So, today we said good-bye to Ray, who departed This Mortal Coil October 12, 2009. Ray was an old hippie and an old Marine. Semper Fi ...

On the way home Dan, Eric and I swung by my bank and then Costco so’s I could pick up a pie for John and myself. Last week I had the swine flu and because I’m such a good roommate, I passed it on to John who on this day was sick at home on the couch watching yet another marathon of the TV show, NCIS: Agent fucking Gibbs and the clan.
 Did you know Illya Kuryakin is on that show?

On the way I pulled out my phone, called John to get the phone number to the Costco pizza-making place (everyone else refers to it as the “food court”), pre-ordered the pie and … then forgot about my phone which may have slipped out of the pocket of my hoodie or maybe I just placed it on the seat and forgot about it.

Now it should be noted, in this context, “pie” means pizza. John is from New York so I’ve picked up that bit of lingo and were Ray alive and reading this, he would know exactly what I was referring to with that term. Alas, Dan and Eric thought I was picking up some sort of fruit pie for dinner. Okay, for you unsophisticated rubes, I pre-ordered an effin’ pizza.

My good friends dropped me off at home, the pizza in hand and off I went secure in the knowledge that I had done good for the day by bringing home a delicious meal in a box, still hot and steaming as it was laid open on the table, to a sick friend who didn’t need to be out and about.

And then it became apparent my phone was not with me. Now, for all but seven of my 53 years I’ve lived without a mobile phone. Before getting a mobile phone I laughed at people who were metaphysically and emotionally attached to their mobile phones. That would never happen to me, I would secretly boast.

So, I had John call my phone, which started ringing, and then call Dan to tell him my phone was in his car. It was making noises and Dan grabbed a hold of it. I must have had that forlorn look on my face because John suggested twice we go to Dan’s and get it. So, as sick as he is, we did. While there and talking to Dan, John decided he needed to stop at a grocery store and since there’s a Stater Brothers next to the UPS Store where I have a box, off we went.

Believe it or not I had forgotten where I had put the phone. It was in my shirt pocket. But that’s how it came to be that John and I were walking in the door from a trip to the store that started as a trip to retrieve my phone and ended up with me eating a bowl of Neapolitan ice cream.

And I still can’t remember what that great fucking writing idea was. DAMMIT!
Eh, doesn’t matter. I’d rather remember Gray Ray today anyway.

Posted by Tim Forkes in Life at 00:01 | Comments (3) | Trackbacks (0)

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