Hi, I’m Rick’s friend from Vegas, not one of the weirdos that seemed to be hanging around. I know it was hard for Rick having his mother hovering over him while he was fighting for his life—he was so disciplined, solid. I put out six grand for the van—we had plans on going into business together, making road calls and house calls to change tires for Harley riders. We were both on the note. He passed the course—all except for the store section; which wasn’t him, selling shit. He hated Florida. Yeah, Florida sucks. But he hated it, rain every day, your pick between New York people and rednecks…

I brought a trailer to tow the Land Cruiser. I’m going to make it a Rick museum. I drove the thing back through Albuqurque and parked in front of my brother’s house. He tells me, “That will be gone by morning. Put it in my driveway.”

Punky, when I went to pick up the van, insisted I stay. I travel a lot for work and stay in hotels—that’s better for me. But she was so welcoming, such a good woman. I could see some of Rick shining through in her, when he would get real concerned for you and nudge you to do what you rally wanted to do but didn’t have the courage. She gave me your number, said. “You just have to talk to Jimmy!” I just want to talk about Rick. He was such a rock out here, a solid guy. We talked every week, at least twice. We were dealing on tables together and he’s talking about The Jеws, like twenty years ago, and I’m like, “Rick, I’m on enough lists, stop before we both get fired.”

I had confided in him that I had this dream about going to law school and he’s on me for ever, “Do it, man, your smart, real smart!” He thought I was a lot smarter than I am. I called him a lot, I’m ten years younger, needed someone to talk to—I was the bad son from New Jersey, Eddison area.

Law school was rough, working all day, studying all night. But it was not bad compared to high school. Who the fuck ever thought up high school? You are locked in with a bunch of assholes and criminals that you would never choose to spend time with in real life—like practice prison. In Jersey, we had no windows in the school. The lights went out and it was blacker than night, with you know who from Rahway sneaking up on you. Think about it, the assholes in high school, if you were on the outside, you’d keep driving bye even if the place was burning down! So it was a great call. Ironically, my Job is to be like Rick, cool and confident. My job consists of every client calling me up or coming into my office in an end-of-the-world crisis. To me, its the job, with practical solutions, staying calm while every body else loses their shit—kind of like Rick.

Rick remembered everything from his youth. Let me place you, you’re the guy that almost cut some guy’s arm off with a homemade sword?

Holy shit. Rick thought that was so cool. He avoided trouble as much as he could despite being toxically opinionated. He admired guys who took care of business. You know he blamed me for him beating up that guy at the gas station on Ohio River Boulevard?

You bet he was proud of it—and he was going to talk to the cops when they rolled up! I’m yelling over the phone, “Rick, never, ever talk to the cops. Not even if they are your friends or you bump into them while you are walking their dog and they’re off duty! Nothing good can ever come of talking to a cop.”

Well, he tried to tell me it was because he was jealous of me fighting at this hockey game. But, the gas nozzle and the lighter, I think he was jealous of you and that sword. You know when he got in that fight with his marine vet roommate at the Harley school, he kicked that guy’s ass. He played it down, but that dude was also twenty years younger than him, like the asshole at the gas station, and Rick took care of business.

The hockey game? Alright—it was some really stupid shit. I’m at a game with a couple friends. Out of nowhere this tall skinny guy calls me a name. He’s on his phone, with his stupid Asian friends. I was taken back, why is this guy picking a fight with me? He gets closer, is on the phone, and tells me, “I just told my wife that I’m picking a fight with a total stranger.”

This really bothered me. I’m no Rick. He called me an eater. I just can’t do the keto. But I was benching 350 in the gym, about 5’ 10” and 200 pounds—not big or imposing. But the fact that this guy picked me—ME—out of ten thousand people as the biggest pussy in the place, really got under my skin. So I said, “Fuck you, and fuck your stupid wife,” and punched him. He went over on his two friends, who both went down! That made me even madder, that these guys were such pussies and I was their mark, so I punched him right in the temple while he was on his buddies. My friends grabbed me and said, “We are going to walk, not run, walk quickly, out the fucking door!”

That’s it, my entire history of adult violence, and Rick had to beat it!

Rick was such an inspiration, even when he’d say, “You know, you’re an eater, right?”

It really gets me that he had to go out like that with the cancer. I didn’t realize he had a family history of it. You know, women liked him. I’d see these solid 9s, Russian women, Vegas women, real hot women, express and interest in him and he would just blow them off—he had a work-out to do or a project to take notes on. He dated the black chick for a while, and things didn’t ever work out with the other chick, so he just adjusted focus and shut all of the bitch shit out. I kind of admire him for that. But it bothered me. I was dating this real hot girl from school. I knew Rick was into her, because he said, “You should date her. You’d be great together.” I told her about it and she said, “Rick, I’d definitely fuck Rick.” We were just casual. My friend Rick is going to come before any woman, anyhow. So I call him up and say, “Hey, Tina wants to do you.” And he’s like, “Nah, she’s yours.” Rick was a solid guy.

I really miss Rick—still can’t believe he’s gone. We ought to get together sometimes. He thought highly of you.