I declare this "International Kaos Day"
Warning: If you do not find life completely absurd and are uncomfortable talking or thinking about death, I suggest you go here or here and check back tomorrow for another entry.
Pete (occasionally known to some as Kaos) would’ve been 41 years old today. Would’ve if cancer hadn’t pushed him off the planet at 34. I’m going to tell a story that he would absolutely hate me to tell, mainly since the punch line revolves around his death. Who likes a story that ends in his own death? Even though pretty much everyone’s story ends that way, near as I can tell.
In 1993 the World Trade Center was bombed for the first time. Pete worked there at the time, and as word spread of what happened I frantically tried to contact him at his work and home phone numbers leaving messages in both places (bear in mind this is 1993 – neither of us had mobile phones). I got a call back a few days later; he was fine of course. What happened? He and his coworkers evacuated and went to a bar, (where else?) where they watched all the coverage on TV. He figured since his name wasn’t among the handful of casualties of that attack nobody would worry so he took his time touching base with people. Needless to say, I was pretty PO’d and let him have it. He pretty much laughed it off.
September 8, 2001 was the last time I saw Pete alive. We visited him in the hospice in Edison, New Jersey and it was a brilliant early fall day, clear and warm and sunny. Exactly the same weather that we’d have the following Tuesday, in fact. He looked good as I had been told often happens to some cancer patients right before the end. As counter-intuitive as it sounds, it is apparently a fact that many patients look and even feel a bit better before they make their final approach. We ate ice pops from the gift shop and he gave me a final piece of advice by yelling at my wife and I as we tried to tell the same story simultaneously. “Stop talking at the same time, nobody can follow what’s going on!” Since then, I let my wife do most of the talking when we’re out and about. She’s better at it than I am anyway.
When we left that day I said I’d try to make it out to see him on Tuesday night the 11th. I never did make it out there since all the bridges from SI to NJ were closed. Pete saw everything that happened that day on TV and had his wife calling around to make sure everyone was OK. Phones in NYC were screwed up for a couple days and she didn’t reach us until the 13th, when she had to tell us that Pete had gone without ever finding out how or if I made it out of the city.
Fate or luck or whatever is funny isn’t it?
Ah, but it is Pete’s birthday so I guess I should say some nice stuff about the guy. So here goes:
For pretty much his whole adult life, Pete was a competitive softball player. However, he also enjoyed filling in occasionally in less-competitive leagues and encouraged me to play even though I was pretty bad. Never the worst, but usually about third from the bottom. The one thing he always tried to emphasize is the fun and camaraderie of being on a team. He was a fierce competitor who hated to lose, but what seemed to aggravate him more than a loss was when guys wouldn’t hang out and have a few beers after the game. The social aspect was as important if not more so than the game itself. Sure he’d tell stories of championships one but more frequently the stories revolved around post-game revelry. Sounds like he might have been a good fit in another sport, eh?
He loved to backpack and day hike too, and he always encouraged less-experienced hikers to push themselves further along the trail, maybe clamber up some steep hill that we didn’t think we could climb and then, of course, hand out some great home made jerky or trail mix or (heavens!) even beer at the top of the mountain.
What he was more than anything else I suppose was a social person. He genuinely loved just being with people he cared about. Rather than buy you a gift for your birthday, he’d take you out for lunch or drinks. He just figured why buy someone a thing, an object when you could spend the money having a great time together? Of course, he wasn’t always punctual about it. Sometimes we’d go out for a birthday months after the fact. But until he got very sick it usually got done.
Ah well, enough with the ass-kissing. If he could read this right now he’d be rolling his eyes. Take care pal, happy birthday. I owe you another lunch.
Pete (occasionally known to some as Kaos) would’ve been 41 years old today. Would’ve if cancer hadn’t pushed him off the planet at 34. I’m going to tell a story that he would absolutely hate me to tell, mainly since the punch line revolves around his death. Who likes a story that ends in his own death? Even though pretty much everyone’s story ends that way, near as I can tell.
In 1993 the World Trade Center was bombed for the first time. Pete worked there at the time, and as word spread of what happened I frantically tried to contact him at his work and home phone numbers leaving messages in both places (bear in mind this is 1993 – neither of us had mobile phones). I got a call back a few days later; he was fine of course. What happened? He and his coworkers evacuated and went to a bar, (where else?) where they watched all the coverage on TV. He figured since his name wasn’t among the handful of casualties of that attack nobody would worry so he took his time touching base with people. Needless to say, I was pretty PO’d and let him have it. He pretty much laughed it off.
September 8, 2001 was the last time I saw Pete alive. We visited him in the hospice in Edison, New Jersey and it was a brilliant early fall day, clear and warm and sunny. Exactly the same weather that we’d have the following Tuesday, in fact. He looked good as I had been told often happens to some cancer patients right before the end. As counter-intuitive as it sounds, it is apparently a fact that many patients look and even feel a bit better before they make their final approach. We ate ice pops from the gift shop and he gave me a final piece of advice by yelling at my wife and I as we tried to tell the same story simultaneously. “Stop talking at the same time, nobody can follow what’s going on!” Since then, I let my wife do most of the talking when we’re out and about. She’s better at it than I am anyway.
When we left that day I said I’d try to make it out to see him on Tuesday night the 11th. I never did make it out there since all the bridges from SI to NJ were closed. Pete saw everything that happened that day on TV and had his wife calling around to make sure everyone was OK. Phones in NYC were screwed up for a couple days and she didn’t reach us until the 13th, when she had to tell us that Pete had gone without ever finding out how or if I made it out of the city.
Fate or luck or whatever is funny isn’t it?
Ah, but it is Pete’s birthday so I guess I should say some nice stuff about the guy. So here goes:
For pretty much his whole adult life, Pete was a competitive softball player. However, he also enjoyed filling in occasionally in less-competitive leagues and encouraged me to play even though I was pretty bad. Never the worst, but usually about third from the bottom. The one thing he always tried to emphasize is the fun and camaraderie of being on a team. He was a fierce competitor who hated to lose, but what seemed to aggravate him more than a loss was when guys wouldn’t hang out and have a few beers after the game. The social aspect was as important if not more so than the game itself. Sure he’d tell stories of championships one but more frequently the stories revolved around post-game revelry. Sounds like he might have been a good fit in another sport, eh?
He loved to backpack and day hike too, and he always encouraged less-experienced hikers to push themselves further along the trail, maybe clamber up some steep hill that we didn’t think we could climb and then, of course, hand out some great home made jerky or trail mix or (heavens!) even beer at the top of the mountain.
What he was more than anything else I suppose was a social person. He genuinely loved just being with people he cared about. Rather than buy you a gift for your birthday, he’d take you out for lunch or drinks. He just figured why buy someone a thing, an object when you could spend the money having a great time together? Of course, he wasn’t always punctual about it. Sometimes we’d go out for a birthday months after the fact. But until he got very sick it usually got done.
Ah well, enough with the ass-kissing. If he could read this right now he’d be rolling his eyes. Take care pal, happy birthday. I owe you another lunch.
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