Mike

I deleted Mike Long's email address from my address book today. It was a painful, tacit reminder that I'll never speak to him again. I never met him in person, and yet I consider him one of my best friends.

Mike was freight broker to whom I was introduced by a mutual business acquaintance about 15 years ago. Part of the work that I do often involves shipping equipment to other parts of the country and out of the country. Mike's business was to find truckers to haul this freight at competitive prices. He was from Houston, Texas and spoke with a "typical" southern drawl. As time went on, I often kidded him about being a no-good redneck ... he would respond with comments about snobby Yankees.

If I needed a quick price, I learned to simply email Mike. If I needed to talk to him on the phone, I tried to make sure I was going somewhere that was at least a half-hour drive and then call him from my cell phone. Mike liked to talk. And I like to talk. You just gotta have the time to do it. He was just a little less than 3 months older than I, so we had a lot of common historical touchstones. We both were raised to work for whatever we had and to be accountable for ourselves. We had a common disdain for slackers, ripoff artists, and scalawags in general.

Mike had a a lot of unique sayings. He almost always referred to me as Doctor Dave. Discussing details of a transaction was know as "bumping heads." A job that went off without any hitches was "slicker than whale shit." Pricing was always "more if you can get it, less if we have to."

Like all of us, Mike made some decisions in life that were fairly poor in retrospect. But he never blamed hard luck or bad times on anyone. He stood up, took his lumps, and moved on to the next thing. He loved midget car racing and I've come to learn that his was pretty adept and successful at it. His daughter was the apple of his eye.

Mike died just 3 short weeks ago. He had told me about some medical issues, some old and some fairly recent. Less than a week before he left this phase of life, we were "shootin' the breeze" and he told me that his most recent bout with the medical field had gone well and he was "ready to go at it again." He was found in his easy chair with the TV remote in his hand. Quick. Peaceful. And a shock to all who knew him.

He had rekindled a flame with a long-lost friend and was recently engaged to her. He sounded so happy and content when he talked to me about her and the plans they had made. She had relatives in the area where I lived and he and I talked about the day that they would come to visit and he and I could finally "bump heads" and share a cold beer together in person. My friend and I would finally shake hands.

I always try to learn lessons or remember old truths when things like this happen. Warren Zevon, an American songwriter who succumbed to cancer a few years ago, was asked what he had learned when he found out his death would be swift, sure, and painful. "Enjoy every sandwich," he responded. Live now. The chores will still be here tomorrow. We may not.

Treat every encounter as the possible beginning of an amazing new friendship. Mike and I never met and we could have been merely business acquaintances, but we let it be more than that.

Value those who are important in your life. They'll probably be here tomorrow, but they might not. And you have no say in the matter.

Have a zest for life. We'll all get our share of kicks in the ass. We can either retreat to a corner and hide, or we can move on and enjoy what we do have.

My circle of friends is now diminished by one. I have no choice but to keep going. I already miss our phone chats. I suppose I could become bitter, but I would be betraying my friendship to Mike. I'll just have to do my best until it's time to "bump heads" with him on the other side.

Adios, my friend.