before i'd begun frequenting my first regular coffee shop, he'd already been a regular there. before i'd ever spoken to him, i'd written (a few times...) about him here. and although an acquaintanceship was launched through a series of unpredicted run-ins at that starbucks on elgin street, our friendship really hit its stride several months later, eventually involving monthly-ish phone calls as well as scheduled hour-long get-togethers taking place in whatever coffee shop has happened to be convenient.
he wears a fedora, a misfit blazer, a pair of wacky socks, and an enormous tie featuring cartoon baseball games. in my mind's eye, he is always striking up a friendly conversation with someone (an old colleague, an "important" public figure, an unsuspecting stranger who won't be a stranger for long) and -- somehow simultaneously -- he perpetually has his arms reaching out towards me, welcoming a warm hello of a hug and the kind of conversation that masterfully and naturally weaves together "how's your family doing?" and "let's get into [very heated topic X]."
even in the early days, he would belt out that he knew i'd be "great." he'd gregariously anticipate -- before a whole room of (perhaps reluctant) witnesses -- grandiose opportunities and accolades for me that actually began to seem possible, in spite of themselves.
and somewhere in each of our conversations, he'd reiterate that he's just never been someone who gets down; how -- i kid you not, Trish! -- he always wakes up with a smile on his face and a positive outlook on the day.
this afternoon, i checked my messages and heard the voice of a somewhat weaker man. but don't you worry about me (he eventually said). i just wanted to know how you were doing! i'll give you a shout tomorrow. before all of that, of course, was the story of how he'd been in the hospital for a week, after having a stroke and being paralyzed on his left side.
tick tock. a stroke of the clock. stroke of genius. stroke of good luck.
i don't know who gets used to the prospect of loss. we mustn't dwell in that room for too long, because the floor there is too slippery (coffee's always just been spilled; there's been no time yet to put up the yellow warning signs; the bruising and concussion from our impending fall are already palpable). but, if we discover -- by circumstance, a hunch, or a miracle -- the right amount of time to be calm in the middle of that room and to have a look around, then i think we catch a very vivid glimpse of, say, a gigantic tie with a colourful new york yankees baseball scene cartooned onto it. even more vivid than seeing it across the table, hanging from your friend's checkered shirt collar. so vivid that you can actually make out Babe Ruth beginning to swing his bat. sah-WING, batterbatterbatter! and it's a strike.
and now back to translating...
