Co-Workers and "Friends"
Ever have an old co-worker whose memory makes you smile, years or decades later? If it's been awhile, I invite you to reach out and tell them, while you still can.
Last month my old friend and former co-worker John passed away at age 57, and instead of planting a tree in his memory (which I did, through his obituary), I wish I had simply told him one more time what a riot he was, how I remember the day I met him (Dec. 21, 1994), and how his well-timed "Kumbaya" got passed down to my students at the University of San Diego.
Snowy Friday morning in Kalamazoo, 1998. Two other co-workers and I are sitting down to meet in John's office. John in his casual-Friday jeans and crisp blue oxford shirt breaks the silence by saying, "If everyone could take hands and sing a couple of rounds of Kumbaya, just to get the meeting going..."
Eleven years later, I would pull this on my students. I wasn't sure they noticed. But at the end of the semester, I stepped out of the classroom so they could fill out their course evaluations – and when I walked back in, they were standing in a circle, smiling, swaying and holding hands, singing "Kumbaya" with all the earnestness of Peter, Paul and Mary. They all got A's.
The day John and I met, I knew I was talking to a Florentine fountain of personality. Just a fun, hilarious, high extrovert who, as it turns out, had just gotten engaged to Aimee, his college sweetheart.
I can see why this guy's in sales. Heck, I wanted to buy from him but I was about to join the company. This was just a meet-and-greet.
That day, John and the rest of the leadership team were dressed in khakis and red sweaters as they served a holiday breakfast to the rest of the crew, about fifty employees total.
I was so excited to be #51. My friend Roxanne would later say my co-workers and I reminded her of the show "Friends." I never saw even one episode, but I knew what she meant. We were all young bright shiny pennies, and John was the shiniest of all.
And the most obnoxious. On my 30th birthday, a bunch of us crammed into a circular booth at Food Dance, our favorite lunch spot, to celebrate. More than once during the meal, John tilted his head, got right in my face and said, "WOULD YOU LIKE HELP CUTTING YOUR FOOD?" John was twenty-seven.
In our more serious moments, we bonded over food and music, dreams and shared success. Andrew Lloyd Webber and my Aunt Anne's meatballs were among our favorites.
Don't ask me why, because I don't know, but he always, always called me Edwina (rhymes with Gina). Even on his wedding day. Thirty years later, it still makes me chuckle. Only John. Everybody's best friend.
I remember when he bought a Mercedes. Pretty sure the boss drives a Jeep. John drove us to lunch one day in his new Benz, and as we sat in the office parking lot afterward with a few minutes to spare, he turned off the car and said, "I have MS." Stunned. He had had it for years.
Five weeks ago today, multiple sclerosis claimed his life. Learned this during a casual call to another friend and former co-worker on Holy-Maundy Thursday. Stunned again.
In our last, sporadic email exchange in 2019, he told me how much he loved starting his week with my Monday-Morning Pep Talk.
So it's no surprise that two nights ago, I pulled up all manner of music to remind me of John and make sense of his passing – Springsteen's "Bobby Jean," a couple of sappy John Denver songs, and most memorably, Andrew Lloyd Webber's "Amigos Para Siempre (Friends for Life)."
When I listen to that song now, I can't help but smile and think of John Evans. I only wish I could let him know.
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"Time goes by so fast. People move in and out of your life. You must never miss an opportunity to tell these people how much they mean to you."
– Frasier Crane, final episode of "Cheers"