WHERE DO THEY GO?

It was one of those things you never expect to be doing later that day when you wake up. The thought just never crosses your mind.

I called a friend this morning to catch up, one of the few people with whom I’d made what I considered a real connection with since moving here. A true New Yorker who at 69 had a knowledge of the city and people that live and lived here that was amazing in its scope and wisdom, something to be in awe of really.

The last time we had lunch together was in a tiny sushi joint near his house. Some high-school kids were making too much noise at a nearby table.

“Hey boys! Keep it down will ya!” It wasn’t hostile or angry, just someone taking some simple action and it totally impressed me. He had something I wanted, some kind of way of dealing with this city, some kind of foot up on things I feel like I’m too busy trying to identify most of the time. I think, he did.

It’d been awhile since we actually had a decent conversation and on Monday I wanted to catch up. We had been working on a book project together and hadn’t done anything with it for couple of months, we were due for another lunch date.

His wife picked up the phone, distraught, confused. She told they’d been watching TV the night before and in one moment he stopped, grabbed his chest and told her something didn’t feel right and the next moment he was unconscious. He was in critical care and she matter of factly told me he wasn’t expected to make it. He was dying.

Dying.

I headed down to the cardio unit at Roosevelt Hospital trying to keep my spirits up, refusing to accept the worst. When I got there his wife and a friend of the family were walking out of the ward. His wife was inconsolable and went right into my arms. He’d passed just 15 minutes earlier.

I asked if I could have a moment with him. To say goodbye. The nurse on duty nodded. I didn’t know what to expect when I entered the room, I hadn’t seen a dead person since my mother’s funeral over 25 years ago. He was on a gurney, eyes closed, mouth open, the color drained out of his face. That big moustache. He looked peaceful. I touched his arm, he was still warm. It shocked me.

I stayed there for awhile, looking at him, the machines, the tubes, the fluids and I wondered where did you go?

He was an atheist, and it dawned on me it didn’t matter what you believed in, if you go somewhere or not I have the idea it has nothing to do with what you believe in, but I have a sense it's not a heaven or hell. Nobody knows.

I walked out with his wife and her friend. We talked about him, sharing stories while we walked to the bus stop. They were on their way to make cremation arrangements. I hugged them both when their bus came and wandered around for a couple of hours, had a bagel, a slice of pizza, some coffee. It seemed so pedestrian, but what do you do after something like that? I hopped on the No. 1 and got off at a different stop than I usually do, walking through the Dominican neighborhood, taking the long way home.