On Remembrance Day I usually think of soldiers everywhere – of the ones who have fallen to keep our country secure, and of the ones who are currently serving, and of the iron bravery it must take to do such a job. I’m pretty sure I don’t have that kind of bravery. I think of their families left at home, holding down the fort while partners are away, of the constant stress and worry that must come with the package. I am grateful to these men and women. I try not to take my liberty for granted. Indeed, freedom is not free.
But.
Today, this November 11th, marks the day that I lost a friend one year ago. We’d been living next door to Paul and his family for more than ten years. I won’t bother to rehash the details of his illness and passing, but suffice it to say that when a man dies at the age of 41 leaving a wife and four children behind, it is indeed tragic in every sense. Dude got sick. Dude went into hospital and didn’t come out. I still can’t believe dude died. I mean, DIED!? [Shakes head.] It’s still completely crazy and unreal to me. I cannot believe I will never see his face again.
I met Paul for the first time when he was busily gutting the duplex a few doors down from us into a sprawling single-family home for his young, expanding brood. I noticed lots of construction activity for months, with handsome French worker-guys going to and fro. One day in the very early spring, I met a guy on the street standing next to a familiar jeep that had become a fixture in the line up of parked cars on our street – I’d greeted him “hello” a few times before, and this time when he smiled and nodded at me, he added, “It’s nearly done inside – you wanna look?” A peek inside a house under construction?! Uh, lead the way!! He led me inside, and introduced himself. I shook his eager, warm hand. He had big, soft, brown eyes with long sweeping lashes. Paul.
The house was going to be gorgeous and roomy for his large bunch. His wife was recuperating in Florida with her family since giving birth to their third child, a girl. (A fourth child would follow two years later.) It was to be a splendid house. He was most proud about the plumbing that had just been installed, since he’d been living in the construction mess, working night and day to get everything ready in time. He was excited about the possibility of having a shower. I told him I could give him soap and towels if he needed them, since he only appeared to have a small bag of dusty clothing strewn haphazardly in a corner. He seemed surprised by my offer. Weeks later, he recounted that when he told his wife about meeting me, and about my offer, he said he should have accepted at the time, because, “If you could have smelled my ass, you would have fallen down.” Yeah. That’s sooooo Paul.
He was probably one of the crudest, grossest people I’ve ever met. I like crude and gross sometimes, especially when mixed with a healthy dose of charming. It was nearly impossible not to be charmed by this man – at least, eventually. He could be completely blunt about any matter. He loved to argue. He loved to party. He loved fart jokes. He was much like a frat-boy in a grown-up’s body. He was the guy with the neck-tie around his head at the end of the fancy-party. He was the only guy I knew who would continue to wear shorts and sneakers without socks, even as the snow fell. He’s finally start to wear long pants somewhere around Christmas. He broke out the shorts again in March. The man certainly had some money to burn, but he dressed like a bum, “Because I don’t give a shit.” Heh.
But for all the ways in which he was bawdy and gross, sometimes inappropriately so (like, he would pick your nose for you, or walk over and squeeze a zit on your chin) he was also ridiculously generous. Here, take the keys to the cottage – just go. Or, Here, take the keys to the boat. Or, Use my car. Eat with us. Stay, have another glass of wine…
As a fireman, he was physically strong and courageous, which carried over into his regular life – he was never afraid to do or say anything, especially if he thought he was right. He cared fiercely about justice. He was so full of integrity, that guy. I loved him for it. And when he was being a big ass about something, and I called him on it, he always apologised sincerely. That takes a big man. (Also, he hated it when I was pissed with him about anything.)
And he had one of the most infectious laughs I’ve ever heard. When I close my eyes and see his face, I can always hear him laughing. And a smile spreads across my face every time. He would often laugh until he was almost choking from the lack of oxygen. He would recount stories and laugh with as much gusto as he had when the incident was new.
He had nicknames for just about everyone, but he called me Mu Shu… out of our love for quest for the best Chinese take-out in the city, and morphed from the tender-love name of mon petit chou (my little cabbage – don’t ask me, ask the French.) I thought it was adorable. I don’t think he ever used my actual name for years – always Mu Shu. Unless he was introducing me to someone new, in which case he introduced me as his cleaning lady. (That bastard.) But then he’d kiss me on the cheek and reintroduce me as his sister. And then he’d point out some dust under the furniture and tell me I was fired. Whatanasshole.
He loved his children enormously, of course, but I’ve never seen a man love his wife so fiercely up-close-and-personal before. I made a lot of mental tips about love and marriage watching those two for so many years. Years before I was married myself. It was incredible to me how they managed to stay so well connected, so intensely close and sexual amidst such a busy life and household, bustling with so many children, and family and friends constantly coming and going. It’s as if there was a revolving door in their entrance, which was almost never locked. Martin and I wandered in and out of their house almost every single day. We stopped knocking, and would just walk in as if we lived there, because whenever we rang the bell, Paul would come to the door with a look on his face like, “Well? Come IN!? Why did you make me get up, mon christ de tabernac?”
He corrected all my French swear words, with relish.
We kissed on the lips to say hello. We played the shit out of Dave Matthews and Coldplay – I will never again hear any of their music without hearing his voice. We sang songs, and ate glorious foodie-foods… dirty foods (as in, Dude, that shrimp sammich rocked so hard, it was fucking dirty…) and shared (copious amounts of) delectable wines. We’ve shared space on couches and beds to nap. I’ve seen him naked more times than I can count. Like the time he whipped out his junk after he got his vasectomy, moaning, “Mon hostie, look how swooooolleeeeen…” (He was always whipping out his junk for some reason or another. He was proud of it. What can I say? Sometimes lives are just too intimate to seem all weird like that.)
I knew him better than any other grown man I’ve ever known, besides my husband. He’s the closest male friendship-only relationship I’ve ever had. He was my friend. One of my best and most loyal. My eyes smart with tears as I remember him today. It’s still a crushing loss to me, in my everyday life.
Last year, one of my foxes told me if you notice a clock strike 11:11, that it was a time to remember someone you love. Since then, I have more often than not noticed this time on the clock – precisely – and often twice a day. There are other faces of people who’ve passed that I think of too, but I always think of him first. Always.
I wish not to remember the last time I saw him (and I was certain it would be the last time) on the 10th last year, late at night, as he lay prone and unconscious in that tiny hospital room, looking smallish and frail, and ashen in his bed. A shell of a man I could hardly recognise. I stroked his hair and laid my forehead against his. I told him he looked like shit, and whispered to just go if it was time.
He left us before 7 AM the next morning. I choked. I sobbed.
Hard-partying. Hard-living. Hard-loving. Ferocious, wonderful, beautiful Paul. I miss you every day. I can’t believe you actually died. I just can’t believe it. And yet, somehow you’re just not here any more. Where are you anyway? I look up in the clouds to see your face… thanks for being open to that Balloon-boy favor I begged you for that day – sorry it was all a hoax, but I know you’ve got your eyes open, watchful, wherever you are. I’ll bet you’re saving me a seat next to the Big Fire, just as we always planned. Salle batard.
Honey you are a rock upon which I stand…
I love you, friend. Words can’t possibly describe how much we all miss you. You know we’re all keeping an eye on your family in your absence, but I wish so hard that you were still here.
Always.
G.G.
