Remembering Rex

Today's a beautiful day, clear blue skies marked with wind, fluffy white clouds cast noticeable shadows on the mountains behind Santa Barbara. It’s also a day I feel that distinct loneliness that comes only when it’s determined you will never again see someone you care for. Suddenly, I feel like I’m forgetting something. Shouldn’t I be somewhere? Oh yes, the past. I should be in the past. So that I can pay better attention. So that I can be fully engaged. So that I enjoy and encapsulate every moment of it.

When Rex was around, I felt taken care of. Or better yet, careFREE. I liked feeling small—in a good way, a protected way—next to Rex. Because of his height, there weren’t a lot of people who didn’t tilt their head up to talk to him. His charm made people’s eyes widen and because of his sense of humor, most people’s mouths spread into an uncontrollable grin in his presence. People approached him with giddy anticipation, as if he were a big, live, reliable toy, who could make you laugh while at the same time accommodate your every need.

I liked the way he’d flip his hair, roar with laughter and peck me on the cheek--mmwa,mmwa,mmwa,mmwa-- through brown, gray and white speckled whiskers. I liked the way Rex took my name, folded it up, origami-like, and presented me it back to me every time we came into contact. And I enjoyed hearing him do this for others too. Rex acknowledged everyone in some endearing way. If you weren't christened by Rex with a special name, he'd give your name a special pronunciation that he not only employed verbally but also typed phonetically into his address book. One of many adorable traits that epitomized Rex and made me feel adopted into the heart of an incredibly unique man.

We became friends working together at Video Shmideo, “Shelving movies and makin’ change,” as he’d say. Although I stubbornly searched for a way to make it more important than that, Rex was there to set me straight. Along with his long legs and his long hair, there’s a long list of reasons I loved the moments spent with Rex. Little things I don’t want to forget. Like his laugh. Like his drumset. His left-handed artsy writing. His description of a good meal as “deeee-lish!” The pink laminated "El Balcon" passes that he made for his guests who enjoyed concerts at the County Bowl. His laugh out loud voice mail messages that were deleted, days later, with reluctance. His taste in music and movies. . . “I don’t know what I like about it, it’s just GOOD. It’s gotta beginning, a middle and an end. And they’re all GOOD.” That old truck of his he let me borrow when I moved, and became his neighbor. The Adirondack chair, which used to sit, perched on my front porch, which I later found out inspired a bunch of his art. The abscess on my kidney that prompted him to say, “I was abscess once. From school. While I was playin' hooky. Yes, I was abscess once too.”

Rex was such a lively, creative spirit; it was always particularly surprising to see him sad. Or lonely. Or sick. And I was especially shocked both times I saw him wearing …. pants. (vs. shorts) None of these things seem to fit with his casual, beaming, witty, whimsical, everything’s-gonna-be-fine-don’t-you-worry-bout-a-thing-now-you-hear? view of the world.

It was heartbreaking to know he was in pain. Even moreso now, to think of him being gone. In my prolonged gesture of denial, I haven’t stopped my habit of eyeing the bike lane, hoping to see his silhouette emerge, merrily peddling up Anapamu Street on his cruiser. A Rex sighting could make a simple drive downtown playful. Joyful. Eventful. He was the headlining act in so many memorable moments of life in Santa Barbara. I want to relish them, remember them, jump up and give a standing ovation to a star performance of a life enjoyed and of so much joy spread. Bravo, Rex! Bravo. Now, who do I call to negotiate an encore?

February 26, 2007

Well, Melissa (among other people) have inspired me to start a blog. Generally speaking, it will include my reflections on work and life and whatever I feel like sharing.