Salutes, Tributes, Smiles

Well, it wouldn't be right if I don't commemorate a few people who've made a difference in my life. Harvey Korman's gone, dead at 81, and as Mel Brooks put it, "The world is a more serious place." I totally agree.

This week is an anniversary of many deaths, people I loved, people I laughed with, people who understood me. The person, not the persona.

Harvey, have a great time in heaven. You make me want to watch "As the Stomach Turns" right now.

Nancy Pfifferling, one of the spanish teachers in my high school, dead of breast cancer on May 31, 2003. I loved the way you had a mock funeral for the letter "j" every September. Black veil, dirge, white gloves and all. You were one helluva lady.

Harryetta Peterka, hit by a bike messenger on May 28, 1998. I'm sorry we only worked together three weeks and one day. I looked at the clock when you went down that morning and thought a strange thing, "It's 11.20 am. What if that's the last time I see her today?" I truly am psychic, because that was the last time I saw her ever. I've almost been clipped time and time again by speeding bikes in the last decade. I always look up at the sky and say out loud, "Thank you, Harryetta." You were absolutely loved by all. I realized it when Gretchen Ham called the school and asked about you. I had to tell her what happened and she cried horribly over the phone. I had to calm her down from Michigan. I hate phones, I always did. That day was particularly hard. I miss your curls and the tilt of your head when you laughed. It was 21 days, but I remember. So does Meg.

Olive, my sweet kitty. Also taken from mammary cancer on May 31, 2003. You were my pretty girl, gone at age 9. My youngest cat ever. I'm sorry the chemo didn't work. I remember how you cried when I took you into the vet. I was only trying to save you.

And Dear Old Dad. You'll never leave me. Mom called this morning to tell me she dreamt of you and me. I was a baby in the crib and you were smiling, standing over me. Those were the happier moments in your life, before it all went to hell. Bills and problems and rent and such. Real life always got in your way. They found you still and cold at the old New York Post building on the fourth floor, facing the water street side. They thought you were asleep. You were. Forever. I walked by there yesterday, sat on the bench and looked up at those windows. I still wonder exactly what part of the fourth floor you were on. What window? Ray Walsh wouldn't let me in. Now the plant's in the Bronx, that building is a storage facility, and I'll never know. Maybe I don't have to. I'm just torn that I never got to say goodbye properly.

I stand and salute. I loved you all. I'm a little bit lost, a little bit older. Not shocked that the gray is showing in my hair and the unanswered questions in my eyes. It's very hard to look in the mirror and catch your conscience staring back at you. It's happening more often. I'm starting to avoid that mirror.

Goddamn it, there's just never enough time. There's never enough money, but even a clock couldn't save me right now.

I really, really hate the end of May.