Even though my crabonic plague is still a-lingerin', I decided to go swimming this morning, just to see if the act of physical exertion might help me hork up some of the more weighty oysters lodged in the deepest recesses of my alveoli.
When I pulled up to the Y, I noticed that the sign out front read, "We Will Miss You, Bob!" The Old Lady had mentioned the sign yesterday, and said that she saw something inside suggesting that Bob was retiring, which is a huge bummer because Bob is probably the nicest guy on the fucking planet. Seriously. I mean, the dude knew my fucking name by my second visit to the Y -- he knew everybody's goddamn name. Not like those other desk workers who would try to sneak a look at your card before saying hello... "Oh... uh, hi there...[glance/panic/scan] Shirley?" Bob just knew everybody -- every single morning, he'd be there at the desk with a cheery, "Mornin' Crabbydad!"
So, I was a little bummed when I saw the sign. Then I walk inside and head toward the lockerroom, and I see this big sheet of paper on the wall where shitloads of people had written little goodbyes to Bob -- "I'll miss your smile, Bob!" and "The Y will be a little less cheerful without you, Bob!" and "Our prayers are with your family at this sad time, Bob."
I looked up and there, in the center of the sheet, was a reprint of Bob's obituary. Bob didn't fucking retire, he died. What the shit?! The dude was only 60. Goddammit.
So, I walked into the lockerroom, which was silent, got my suit on and managed to do about half the laps I normally do before I started wheezing and horking up lung. I said "fuck it" at that point, and went back in to get dressed and go home.
I don't have a snappy ending to this story. I'm just shocked and bummed that one of the only people I see on a daily basis, and the only one who knew me from a turd on the ground, is dead. I mean, I didn't really know the guy, but when I think about it, I probably knew him as well as I know anybody in this town... which is depressing. I guess it's just another reminder to get out of this house and do shit and meet people and fucking live a little... if for no other reason than to ensure that when I drop dead, maybe there'll be more than two or three people to sign my sheet of paper on the wall at the Y.
Rock on, Bob.