To The Chef With Tattoos On His Hands

I just left your house after what I assume will be our last game night. I’m sitting in my car a few hundred feet from your doorstep and there’s this all-too-familiar weight in the silence in this part of the night. It’s the weight of good things coming to an end.

You were, for all practical purposes, the first friend I made in Ukiah. You were the reason why working 55 hours a week didn’t suck and why I actually looked forward to those weekend shifts in that shitty restaurant where it just you, me, the bartender, and the dishwasher. I knew that at the end of the week I could watch you pour yourself a few shots of Hennessy or cognac and listen to your stories of growing up in Detroit. About the time you broke your rib while surfing on top of a moving car, how your friend turned sharply without warning you, and how you flew to the ground. About the time ten thugs stomped your hand. About the tie your grandfather vouched for you and got you out of jail. About how you went and sold a few bags later that day because that’s what you had to do to survive.

I’ll never forget the time I looked across the restaurant and saw you giving my parents recommendations on where to go while they visit the area. I hadn’t even told you they were related to me and you treated them with such respect and sincerity. How you treated everyone with respect as long as they respected you. How you truly love people. You are one of those very rare individuals in life who really cares about people. I love you for that.

Today you told me more about your grandfather. He sounds like one hell of a man. Transforming from a biker who, when being pulled over by a cop, stopped just next to bridge so that when the cop came up to him, he could uppercut him so hard the cop went tumbling off the side of the road to a pastor who put up a stand on the side of Detroit street to pray with people. How you would walk 3 hours (one way) just to bring him coffee in a thermos and to pray with him. How he locked you in a basement until you got sober.

It seems to me that addiction is not the only thing that runs in your family. So does resurrection, self-transformation, and offering others one of the most precious gifts we can offer each other on this planet: true care.

I respect the shit out of that, man.

Love, your humble server,

Roman

P.S. If you could have a giraffe that was zebra-print or a zebra that was giraffe-print, which would you choose?