There are all types of people in our world. There are those who command armies, soar into outer space or even dive into the deepest depths of the ocean, solving mysteries that everyone has forgotten about. We notice them.
We can’t help but notice the painters who can create masterpieces, writers who take the written word and create a world for others to escape into or teachers that inspire their students to strive for greatness. Surly we should lift up the actors who walk across the boards of a stage or screen, poets who provide a balm of rhyme to a nation in upheaval and the nurses and doctors who create miracles day after day after day. So many people.
But, I’m not here to talk about those people. Those people are best left to better storytellers than I.
No, I want to tell you a story. A story about a humble, salt-of-the-earth man whom some dismiss as unremarkable, living his unremarkable life, invisible to most, an extra on the movie set of life. A man who doesn’t lie in state, flower piles, only the best, a line of mourners taking their moment to touch a heavily polished casket, turning their heads for the cameras as a single tear slides down their dry faces.
Who would morn for this man? A man who is leaving nothing more than a statistic. 4,100. 4,101. 4,102 dead. He was a footnote. Or an asterisk that is only referenced deep in the appendix or bibliography of a dusty volume lost at the bottom of a bargain book seller’s last chance bin. A blur of a life. A blink.
No one has remembered to wind the clock. There is no chime at the half or the hour for this man and a draft has charged into the room and extinguished a flickering flame in the glowing embers of a dying fire. Who could, who would, mourn such a man?
I want to tell you the story of this man. He was a humble, gentle man. He was a give the shirt off his back man. A walk down the street with his eyes cast downward man. He spoke softly and laughed loudly.
He played bridge. Oh! How he played bridge. This unremarkable man at a table of four, eyes burning with such passion for the game, trump or no trump, spades, hearts, diamonds, 2 clubs opening bid, sighs of disappointment, cheers of praise, no not that card, this card, follow suit, now you’re stuck on the board, Stupid play, well played. Meh. He was an unremarkable man. He was my friend.
And later in life, he found his true love, his one love, his queen of hearts, his empress to his lackey. Karen. Blonde, boisterous Karen, Kiss me, Kate, Karen, no lioness tamers need apply, Karen. Karen with a roar of a laugh, Karen that he met online bridge playing, Karen. She Irish, lapsed Catholic, no not lapsed, more comatose. She, of the go to the living room and count your blessing Mcdaniels, didn’t need to anymore, for she had found her blessings in this unremarkable man. He, a Brooklyn Jew, oy vey, a walking, talking stereotype, in love with Karen, the Shiksha, kindly kvetching about the putz one table over. Married, Disney honeymoon, years of bliss, struggles, and yes, love. Every night, this unremarkable mensch would thank his love. He would say, “I am the happiest man alive.” Who would mourn such an unremarkable man?
And yet, here we are. At a loss. A virus. This unremarkable man, stolen, gone, a vacant place where a bridge fourth should be. No game. No fourth. Games are done. This man, whom angels lift upon their wings. Whom God put in the right place, in the right second, in the right moment, for all of us. This unremarkable man whom challenges were great, a man with ADHD, Dyslexia so depilating, no focus, impulsive, hyperactive, his world reversed, upside down, scrambled, jumbled, books, paragraphs, sentences, words, letters useless and yet, this unremarkable man strode through, rushing, no time, no rest, cap and gown at 15, college at 16. Forward, forward, forward. Do not look back. Forward, onward, upward, something better, something worthwhile, something remarkable, always, always, Karen, friends, bridge, and now silence.
Why didn’t someone wind the clock. There must be a chime, hour, half hour, quarter, three-quarter. There must be a chime, there must be something. Mirrors covered. The virus took so much. No Shiva. No prayers. Why? Why, God. There must be. There must be for this man. This remarkable, passionate, loving, thoughtful, kind, heart so large, smile so broad, laugh so commanding, man. Without this man, we are, what? We are diminished. Stars, moon, the world, less than. Unremarkable.
I mourn this remarkable man. He was my friend.