Tamssmat

Today is a very sad day. I just found out that an old friend of mine passed away sometime in the night, Sunday. From what little I know so far, he left us while he slept so at least he had that. I’ve known Greg since my very first days as a cocktail waitress at the Hurricane. He sat just to the left of the opening of the round bar where I would stand to either wait for my drinks to be made, or just hang out and get in the way of the bartenders and barbacks. He was there almost every day. Not necessarily to drink but just because he knew each and every one of us and felt, I think, a sense of honor in looking out for us when the bar became chaotic. He was a big scary looking black man but he was a teddy bear at heart. On days off, when Jr. was with my parents or his dad, Rebecca and I would go sit at the round bar early in the evening and catch up with Greg. He worked for FEMA and could always tell us what we needed to know about the activities of the government. He made fun of me and at the same time supported me, when I started wearing a Victoria’s Secret water bra. When the bar was packed with drunken idiots trying to get the bartender’s attention, Greg would part the drunken cattle and make way for me to get back to the safety of the round bar.

He had a blog that he used to email the link to me every time he posted and it was the best blog I’ve ever read. I’ve spent years trying to convert people I know to the ways of Greg Beck and his ‘Views from the Spanish Announces Table’. Hilariously entertaining rants, stories about his day at the FEMA offices, his take on the trips that ‘the man’ would send him on. One Saturday afternoon early, I took Jr. with me down to the bar to pick up my paycheck and Greg was there just hanging out with Tim and Bottles. My boy was probably 4 years old at the time. He promptly jumped up onto the stools at the round bar and started running laps around the bar, hopping from stool to stool. Now picture Big Old Greg watching in horor as this little blond boy who is WORLDS smaller than he is risking his life for the sheer joy of stool hopping. Poor Greg didn’t know what to do. It was vastly amusing. He gave Jr. a real harmonica. Not one of those little crappy pieces of metal, a musicians ‘4 chromatic octaves’ harmonica. The boy still has it.

His services are going to be held early next week and I will not be able to attend because we’re leaving for Florida on Saturday morning. I’m not sure how I feel. I haven’t seen him in years but it was just last month that he and I were texting about meeting up at The Record Bar because it had been entirely too long. And now I don’t even get to be here to say goodbye to him. He will be so greatly missed by more people than I can ever hope to touch with my own life.