my respects to marc

Last night I found out that one of the Den's kitchen guys died on Saturday.  I know I've only been there for three months or so, and some of the other employees have lived and breathed with this guy for years and years, but it still hit me.  So I'd just like to take a moment to honor his memory, my way.

Marc is one of those people you can't imagine dead.  I guess you can't imagine very many people dead, unless they're in a coma or 125 years old or something.  But he was just so vital.  My standard greeting with the kitchen guys went something like this: "Hey, how you guys doin' tonight?"  "Better when I leave here!  But such is life.  How are you, sweetheart?"  Marc would always add something like, "Better now that you're here!"  "I've been waiting all day for you to show up!  I was just about to leave here but I guess I'll have to stick around now, eh?"  Or when I said, "I'm buzzer #7 tonight, guys," he'd say, "You're number one in my book, gorgeous!"  At this point Theresa would chime in, "He says that to all the girls, don't listen to him!"

I love kitchen banter.

Anyway, as much as he complained about being at work all the time, he was really there, all the time.  You know what I mean?  He moved with confident ease around the restaurant, through the kitchen, nonchalant and rarely showing stress or exhaustion.

He was born the same year as my mom.

You can read a more official obituary here.

Now to give this more substance than the fluffy "larger than life" eulogy, I'm going to refer you back to an essay I wrote last year about my friend Chris and my step-grandma Helen, and then I'm going to raise you one.

Death urges me to reflect on life, and I know I'm not the only one.  (Coffeeshopcrush today told me he has at least 3 copies of the book Tuesdays With Morrie, which I recommend to everyone who hasn't read it yet.  An inspiring outlook on life while waiting for death.)  It's like a slap or a cold bucket of water, especially when I'm not expecting it, a hand pushed in my face by traffic police warning me to take a moment of pause.

I don't cry when I hear that someone has died.  (This sometimes makes for awkward situations, but I guess it makes me a good person to have around in a crisis.)  I don't cry and I remember all too easily that death is a part of life, that it happens to everyone eventually.  I am too quick to say that I am more afraid of living too long than dying too soon.

Still, I'm stopped short by such announcements.  Especially since, after the restaurant took a moment of silent prayer for Marc and his family last night, the band started back up again, and the servers had to start running tables again, and the kitchen guys had to get back to cooking again.  So abrupt.  Unreal.  As if I was watching from inside the old walls.

After Chris died, a friend said, "Why are you so torn up about it?  It seems like you only knew him for like 3 days."  This time, someone said, "That's rough.  It's always hard when someone dies before their time."  I'm upset by these comments, particularly the first one, because despite my tendency to take it all in stride, I do not deign to take death lightly.  I took Death, Dying, and Bereavement.  I know about role holes, or the vacancies left in the lives of survivors after the death of a loved one.  Especially during the holiday season, this is particularly paralyzing.  I know how important it is to grieve, and I know that feeling as though our grief is irrational or irrelevant is a sickening feeling and one that can send a person spiraling into very dark places.

I didn't know Marc well, and probably none of you knew him at all, but I know we've all, for the most part, suffered some kind of loss in our lives.  So I ask you all to Pause for the Universe (thank you, Liz, for the phrase); Pause for your own Loved and Lost; and Pause for Marc.