I’m going to miss my friend Bob. This summer he decided it was time for a big change. He’s moving (probably on the road right now) to Nashville. It’s not like me. I don’t miss people, especially ones I work with. Think about it. If you work a 40 hour week, that’s around 2000 hours a year you’ll spend with coworkers. They can’t help but get on your nerves.
Over the last few years I began to see Bob as a beacon of light in the quiet desperation of the 9-5. He always had a new novel or band for me to check out. Our conversations ranged from the mundanely off-beat to serious discussions of art and literature. We never hung out that much but like I said we spent a lot of time together.
Most people I can take or leave and maybe now that he’s gone I’m idealizing him but Bob’s a rare individual. If a subject interests him he attacks it with an all consuming intensity. Besides the advertising work we did together, he’s a musician, journalist, screenwriter, and filmmaker. A 21st century renaissance man, the guy can talk about anything. He’s even worked as an actor, appearing on stage at Improv Boston, in the film Fever Pitch, on the television show Legend and in a B-movie starring Dana Plato and Frank (brother of Sly) Stallone called Lethal Cowboy.
Recently, he’s been putting the final touches on a short film he wrote and directed. The script called for a young child to play one of the main roles. When he asked if I’d let my son fill the spot I could see how important the project was to him. Making a film is hard work but it was wonderful to see Bob in his element.
Working in an office, without some sort of purpose, can be a slog. We started at the company around the same time. Not long after, over a beer, we agreed that the job was only a short time gig. Seven years later, last Friday was his final day. Before he left I gave him a copy of Hunter S. Thompson’s The Proud Highway. It sums up how I want to remember him, out in the world moving forward, living life like it should be led.
This week I went up to Lowell to check out the Jack Kerouac exhibit at the Boot Mills Museum. They have the original scroll of On The Road on display. Normally, something like this would provide fodder for a time killing conversation. Now I’m left with no one to talk to. The people I work with these days aren’t exactly big literature fans. They’d probably, as Bill Hicks (one of Bob’s favorite stand up comics) used to say, stare at me like a dog that’s just been shown a card trick.
Later, after we’d said our goodbyes, I saw Bob walking down a white hot Boylston Street. I hustled to catch up but he was gone, mixed in with the Red Sox fans, tourists, and men in business suits. I can’t shake the feeling that it’ll be the last time I ever see him.
I hope I’m wrong. Regardless, late on this steamy August night, with the deadline for this column looming and the crickets buzzing outside, my world feels emptier.
This column originally appeared in The Sun Chronicle