My primo pal Joe is trying to leave the coffeeshop, but I am blocking the door, I won’t let him go. We’ve already shared a deep hug, a bran muffin and a crack chat about love and death, much of which I plan to use in the sprawling story I’ve been writing this past year about my coven of wise, old guys; but given that he had just told me he is –ready to goanytime- my voice raises an octave and I ask:
What am I going to do when you die?
He throws his head back and laughs.
This self-dubbed average Joe, so remarkably zen and brilliantly young at heart is always cracking up. Or smiling; enjoying every moment, every day, no matter what. Trust me, I try to poke holes in his happiness and never spring a leak. Joe avoids the futility of neurosis and…
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