The Vigil

I've known a fellow for 30 years named Alan, who I met through Paul. I call him the lovable scoundrel, and most who know him agree with my description. I once told Alan that's what I called him, and his eyes sparkled and he said to me "You're right!" Alan is dying.

Alan's from Scranton, and after Penn State went to UM Law. He built up a successful accident and injury practice using Yellow Pages advertising -- he always had the second or third big ad, and back in pre social media days, Yellow Pages were where folks found lawyers. A few years after I met him, he hired David as his associate. David is a real Queens guy who went to law school at Nova. David became Alan's little brother.

Well, Alan had a gambling problem, and used his trust account as his bank. He would replace lost funds with the next settlement, but like all Ponzi schemes, this one ended. He lost his ticket, as we call it, in 2000.

He then went to work for David, who took over the firm.

Alan had issues with women, and as a father, but when he threw a party -- you WANTED to be there. Back in the days before he lost his ticket, he'd host holiday parties at Mezzanote in the Grove. They were legendary affairs. When Alan turned 50, now 19 years ago, he threw himself a party at his Grove Isle condo. His girlfriend at the time was a stripper who looked just like Pamela Lee Anderson. Her friends were all there, very skimpily dressed.

One of the young ladies remarked to Wifey that she was cold. Wifey said "You know, you might try wearing some clothes."  Alan liked Wifey, but stopped inviting her to parties...

Some years ago, Alan was diagnosed with small intestine cancer. He was treated and recovered. He though he had beaten it. But last year, while Paul and I were having lunch with him, he lacked his typically ravenous appetite. He was worried. Sure enough, the cancer had recurred.

He went through a year of chemo, and was doing fine -- dating wildly inappropriate women, working at David's firm. But a few weeks ago he was hospitalized, and they tried surgery. The cancer had spread too much. He crashed, and was sent home with hospice care.

His son Max, who was living in Israel but moved back to Miami, reached out to Paul. He wanted his father to see a rabbi. So we reached out to Yossi -- he had met Alan years ago.

Monday night, we met the Rabbi at Alan's house. Alan was out of it -- the morphine had him drifting away. Still, he hummed along with the Shema, the Jewish version of last rites. Paul held his hand.

After we left Alan's bedside, we sat with Max, and talked about the challenges of being Alan's son. The rabbi was wise and helpful.

I can't imagine Alan will be on this mortal coil more than a few more days. It was pathetic to see him in bed helpless -- he was a big man, with a strong gait, who always looked like he had the world on a string, even when the world had him.

So I drove home from Grove Isle, once again firm in my life's philosophy. Our time is so limited here -- grasp the best you can.

The bell has tolled for Alan. It tolls for us all.