I have seventeen entries in my cell phone directory of people who are dead. Sixteen men and one woman. My oldest and best friend Mike, gone too soon and in the midst of a dispute we never quite settled, then his wife Nancy, just a few years later, succumbing to breast cancer after deciding to forgo chemo for fear of losing her hair.

Two guys I met playing squash, one a complete crazy person, but in a good way; Paul and I traveled, quite literally around the world together, from NY west, bouncing off countries and continents until arriving back where we started. His last words to me were that he would kick my ass in squash, days later dying of complications from prostate cancer.

The other gentleman, Joe, was one of my favorite mentors, a masterful attorney and finally a judge, falling too early to the ravages of Parkinson’s disease and the pleasant indignities of our final lunch together where I had to wipe food from his mouth as he somehow smiled. I helped to carry him to his grave.

Then Sal, my favorite attorney and one of the brightest men I ever met; he came out of retirement in his mid-70s because the stock market had crashed, ruining his savings. This man slept in his office during the week and retreated to his home in the Pocono Mountains on the weekends. He once kicked a young man-potential client out of his office because he was being rude to his mother. His wife called me with the sad news of his passing.

Poor Rodney, the black handyman; he did lots of work on my house and my office over the years and we argued mightily about the prospects of an Obama presidency but always respectfully. Rodney had a young son he would bring along sometimes to the job, a respectful and very polite boy that lost his dad way too early.

Dick, an older man, never married, a modest, middle-class bon vivant and regular visitor to all of the local and popular bars, yet did not himself partake of intoxicants; he rather more enjoyed the camaraderie and socializing. If you got him going on a historical topic, he would laugh and remember it with fondness and if saddened he was quick to shed an ear; he was a very nice and humble man. Cause of death unknown to me, but he was in his 80s and reportedly an excellent baseball infielder in his day.

My good friend Patrick, dead in his mid-40s, reportedly falling down the stairs at home. “Bones” as he was known, struck and killed a police officer with his car and spent four years in prison where he helped to teach young men how to tell time and how to play a higher level of softball. A rabid Met’s fan and a chronic gambler, he could tell you more baseball stats than a Google search. A great guy that everyone loved, but tragically failed to launch.

Joe, a man of a bygone era, was a husky, handsome Italian real estate man with plenty of  friends in all sorts of places; his collection of finely crafted Italian suits was impressive. Every time I had an article published in the local newspaper, Joe would be the first call I got, and every time he would begin by telling me that whatever it was I had written about was “outstanding.” He never missed an afternoon at the YMCA.

Steve, the little guy who was always tagging along until that time when he went into the Navy and came back as the man we all looked up to, literally, as he was 6’5” and 240 pounds of military muscle. At 40-something he was diagnosed with a rare lung disorder that ended up taking his life on the operating table as they tried a risky procedure which ultimately failed. I’ll never forget the look in his eyes on our last meeting as he described what he was about to undergo. I brought my 15-year-old son along for that visit in an effort to show him what the difficulties in life look like close up. It was to be our last meeting.

Another Steve, this one the younger brother of my childhood sweetheart, a brilliant boy who never quite accepted the realities of adulthood, this guy was a magnificent painter, a writer, and a musician that embraced the drug culture and all of the illness that came with it. He left behind two children and a sorrowful family that witnessed the sadness of a brother’s failure to thrive into his potential.

Then there was Tom, retired early from a state job, who loved bragging about sloughing off at work and spent his time drinking beer and smoking pot; a heart-attack killed him in his early 60s before he could figure out how to be a grandpa.

The latest death, my Uncle Tom, happened only a few months ago. We were pretty close; he used to beat me at chess pretty regularly until one day I got lucky and beat him. Funny thing about it, he’d realize he was going to win before I did because he was such a better player and saw the game far ahead of me. His death was a real unusual event as he went into the hospital short of breath and at first, the docs thought he was headed home after a few medicine adjustments—all of a sudden he was instead headed to hospice care. He didn’t even seem that sick and was just basically waiting to die. Before he did, we talked a lot and he shared with me the book that unlocked his drawing talent. About a week before he passed, I asked him to draw for me and he did. He was a great guy, a true man of God, and a really deep and critical thinker. When I slow down a bit, I’ll examine that book.

Two of my buddies’ dads are also in my phone, a former limo driver I used to hire for trips to New York, and finally, the brother of an acquaintance that I ended up liking more than I did his brother.

I don’t have the heart to take any of them out of my phone. Not doing so somehow lessens the finality of what death really is and I’m always happy, and then a little sad, to see their names pop up.

Image: Free image, Pixabay license.