I gazed at the cash register like a deckhand at a lighthouse; its glow a refuge from the tidal pool of people bustling around me. I had an hour to get lunch. I looked down at my watch.
12:42. Five hours today and 10 more tomorrow, then I'd be up north and on the slopes.
"$10.31," the cashier barked, snapping me back into coherence. I paid for lunch and scrambled back up Boylston Street towards my office, all the while knowing the few remaining minutes I had at my desk would be spent resembling a competitive eating contestant.
The combination of shoes clicking against the sidewalk, tires on pavement, and the occasional blast of a car horn created white noise that was less chaotic than the sandwich shop. I called my buddy Lumpa to see how the conditions looked for the weekend. No answer. Bitch had probably skied the whole hill already today with no crowds. I called Bob, a mutual friend who could give me the same information.
"Hey man," Bob flatly answered.
"What's up?! How are ya?! Ready to rage it this weekend, guy?!" I recoiled with prototypical salesperson enthusiasm as anticipated weekend adrenaline coursed through my veins.
Did I just drop the call? There was nothing.
"Oh shit," I heard on the other end. "You don't know. Do you?"
"What's up? I just tried to call Lump but he didn't feel like answering my call. You guys ready for this weekend?" I responded with blissful ignorance. I heard Bob exhale in my ear.
"Lumpa died last night."
I dropped my phone on the sidewalk.
Luckily it didn't appear to have any damage. I quickly put it back up to my ear. I could tell Bob was trying to stay composed on the other end. He took a few breaths and then told me that Lumpa had gone on a snowmobiling trip. He had a free spirit and I thought a little sauce, triple digit speed, and some thick trees or thin ice when one realizes they're over the middle of a lake. The northern new england news outlets specialize in delivering that story about 35 times every winter. The anchors become proficient in displaying 30-seconds of generic sympathy by February.
"He had an allergic reaction to food," Bob said. "They think it was escargot or caviar or something on top of dinner. His airway swelled up so people's CPR efforts didn't help. By the time they got an ambulance out there it was too late."
 |
| William 'Lumpa' Brett |
I went through the natural processes of mourning a friend who is unexpectedly taken at an early age. The easy part about Lumpa was that he truly lived life to the fullest, always enjoyed himself, and because of that, made everyone he came in contact with happy in that moment.
He had a lasting impact by being himself. And he only had a fraction of a life.
Hindsight is 20/20. Looking back on the short time I knew Lumpa, I realize he introduced me and re-introduced me to a good amount of things I highly prioritize in my daily life: family, quality friends, sports (particularly golf!), enjoying whatever decision you make, and not caring about what other people think. I'm sure my memories of him are typical, but the anniversary of his passing being so close to Valentine's Day is a solid reminder of what people value.
I've always thought Valentine's Day was a pagan holiday, created by retail companies to boost quarterly earnings during a short month (I'm such a romantic). At least I've never broken up with someone because I'm too cheap to get them a gift! (All 14 of my readers just felt bad for a minute)
Whether or not you have a significant other doesn't matter, despite what Hallmark wants you to believe. What matters is letting the people you love know it. It can be simple or extravagant, but it should be genuine, because regret sucks. At least I think that's what I could picture Lumpa saying.
That, and, "You want another beer?"
