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- Feature - Lloyd Kaufman: The Kotori Interview
- Feature - Martin Luther King, Jr.'s Road to the Mountaintop
- Feature - Losing LeBron
- Feature - The Crazy Legend of Slowhand Jack
- Feature - The Giving Lens Gets Focused
- Notes From A Polite New Yorker
- Tommy Digital's Pussy Cocktails
- The Octopus Files
- Wasims Rants
- The Guys You'll Meet on Earth, But Not in Heaven
- Slippery Id
- The Shameful Truth
- Writing for the Sake of It
- Void Creation
- Frankly Speaking
- Pulling At The Fringes
- These Altered States - America Trying to Become Itself
- The Worthless
Notes From A Polite New Yorker: Creeping Death in Sunny Summer
Notes on Life and death from the Big Apple.
Hauling musical gear on the back roads of the Connecticut countryside was satisfying. I followed my friend Steve past some interesting houses in the woods of Killingworth; one giant massive estate that was under construction was already completely out of place with the houses around it. Another house was built in a strange dome-shape, eccentric to the last.
We were done loading the gear for my friend's big July 4th party. I invited Steve to join me for some pizza, but he couldn't. He had to make a phone call to a friend's mother. The friend was in Texas and had committed suicide. It was an online gaming friend; they had never met in person, but the loss was hard to fathom. The guy was young and had a lot to live for, if he had only been able to see that. Now it was up to my friend Steve to try to console his friend's mother. Steve has a lot of friends, and cares deeply about people, despite his cynical and jaded exterior. He's a person people are drawn to, and for good reason, but this also means he spends a lot of time facing life's tragedies. He's seen more than his fair share.
The day after July 4, my father flew into town and rented a car at LaGuardia airport. He came to our apartment in Queens, and visited briefly with me and my wife and our two little girls. My Dad lives in Georgia, and doesn't get to see his granddaughters much.
Then we headed to Poughkeepsie for a wake.
Mickey Murphy was my father's best friend. They had been friends since they were 13-year-old freshman at All Hallows High School in The Bronx.
Mickey and his wife Denise are my godparents, and were a very good influence. They were adults that spared me the drama of regular hectoring and criticism required of parents. There are times in every person's life when they hate their parents; but I could never think a bad thought about the Murphys. Mickey was always a friendly face, a calm voice even amid the sturm und drang of adolescence. His wife Denise is the liveliest and friendliest person of every place she goes.
Mickey had diabetes, and had not had an easy time of it. He had experienced heart surgery, kidney dialysis, and a lot of other non-fun things. He'd be permitted a measure of self-pity about it, but that was unthinkable. He was a constant doer of good and could keep his head up even through very bad times.
My father and I drove to Poughkeepsie, talking about things to keep our minds off of our destination. We gabbed about the sorry state of politics, the health and well-being of our own family, how his granddaughters are growing, and his difficult travel schedule.
At the wake, the significance of the loss was evident. Whether people knew Mickey for 15 years or 50, they considered him their best friend.
I owe Mickey a lot, because he was always giving my father interesting books to read and helped shape him as a voracious reader in high school. Not too many 16-year-olds can tackle Jean-Paul Sartre's Being and Nothingness, but Mickey Murphy and my Dad did.
My father was asked to say a few words, and he came with prepared remarks prepared. As per usual he made me very proud to be his son.
Here is what he said:
"I met Mickey in freshman year of high school, now more than 50 years ago. In the past few days, many of our classmates have been exchanging reminiscences and nearly all of them recall his amazing abilities. One of us wrote that, given what Mickey could do on the basketball court as well as in the classroom, he was a kind of superhero to the rest of us. And that was true. I remember describing Mickey to someone once who said, ‘Really, a guy who can do everything really well, sounds pretty hateful.' But in Mickey it wasn't. He was a gracious man and there wasn't an ounce of swagger in him anytime, ever. In fact, if there was a flaw to point to at all, it was that he seldom paused long enough to even take in the great thing he had just done, before he went on to the next.
"Mick had a successful career at IBM before illness cut it short. He had a series of important positions in our Human Resources function, and ended up as Director of HR for the company's corporate headquarters division, where he had responsibility for the global headquarters site in Armonk. When I asked him about his executive responsibilities he said, ‘It's simple, it's just the stuff you already know.' Mickey had a welcome sign placed at the desk in the headquarters lobby. So yes, that's simple, and it was certainly something that Mickey knew to do, but no one had thought to do that before. He carried a reflexive graciousness with him throughout his life and applied it everywhere.
"Thirteen years ago, Mickey and I visited Ireland. The trip was a Christmas present from our wives. Neither of us had ever been, and it was a pilgrimage of sorts. We visited our mothers' birthplaces. Mickey's mom's in Charleville, and my mother's hometown of Roscrea. We also hit all the sites that would draw any self-respecting, brooding, romantic Irishman. We went to Kilmainham prison, and saw the yard where the leaders of the 1916 uprising had been executed. We traced the bullet holes in the walls of the post office on O'Connell Street in Dublin. I remember joking that if we had to have all of the darkness of this heritage, couldn't we at least have some of the light? I get the brooding intensity and sense of injustice unpunished and all that, but what about the mirth and the magic? Isn't there supposed to be a pot of gold here someplace, Murphy? So I got him to go to the Art Museum. It's really convenient being right here next to the prison. I insisted we go to the Abbey Theater in Dublin to see a play. True, it was a brooding tragedy about a dying young man, but it was the theater.
"This struggle between the darkness and the light – not letting one overtake the other – is something all of us of Irish descent inherit. We don't always achieve a manageable balance, and it can be a life's work. There is one thing this week that gives me comfort. Today Mickey is with Our Lord of whom Scripture says, 'In Him there is no darkness only light.' So we know that, for Mick, a perfect balance is now achieved, and all the physical challenges he bore so graciously throughout his life are resolved. Because we understand the truth of the Resurrection, we know that Mickey is restored to the fullness of his abilities, and all the great gifts God gave him just as he was when I first met him. This is a promise made to all of us, and in the sadness we feel at having to say goodbye to our great friend, this gives us legitimate cause to celebrate."