Too Little Time
Posted on June 1, 2016 by bob in EdNote
When we were children, he used to bet me he wouldn’t live past 30. It was a scary thought, but it was his style to be melodramatic.
“Oh, stop,” I’d say, wanting to change the subject. “You’ll live to be older than any of us.”
Two years my junior, Angelo was a cousin, and more importantly, the son of my father’s best friend. With such close familial ties we were destined to spend countless hours together, despite the distance between Montgomery and Atlanta. It was fortunate for us both that we got along so well.
At six-and-a-half feet and 300 pounds (in lean days), Angelo cast an imposing figure. As a boy, because of his size, people tried to push him towards sports. But his appearance belied a gentle nature. He was neither agile nor aggressive, more a sweet-tempered brontosaurus than a conquering T-Rex.
I looked forward to visits with Angelo each summer when our family traveled to Atlanta to see relatives. As young teens we’d take the bus from my grandmother’s house on Virginia Avenue and head uptown to eat lunch, shop, or see a movie at the Fox, Loew’s Grand, or the Rialto. Making our way through the city, we’d share stories about the rich characters in our families (both our dads were immigrants), the angst and drama of our young lives, and our joint aspirations to know more about the world. I never understood how my always-strict parents permitted me to explore downtown Atlanta with a younger cousin — especially when I couldn’t do the same thing in Montgomery. Somehow, being with Angelo made it okay. They knew he would be my protector, and I knew they were right.
Kind and generous to a fault, Angelo was also a raconteur — one of the best story tellers I’ve ever known. Stretching a story to its very limits, he reveled in his ability to entertain. Any topic and anyone were fair game. Never mind the story bore little resemblance to the truth. The more details the better. When he knew you were in the palm of his hand, when you were certain you couldn’t laugh any more, he’d deliver a mischievous zinger to leave you rolling on the floor. Angelo’s wry sense of humor bespoke his intellect and also his creativity.
That he was a business major in college seemed wildly incongruous to me as his true love was art. He’d frequent every museum, art supply store and gallery in the city — and I was more than happy to tag along. His size and demeanor always attracted attention. Captivated by people from all walks of life, they, in turn, were drawn to him.
To be sure, Angelo had his foibles. Like an insatiable appetite for anything he relished or enjoyed. I always thought it masked a deep, sad hole in him that couldn’t be filled. And, at times I wondered if he occasionally confused truth with the fabrications in his stories, because reality was never as much fun.
Our paths in life took us in different directions. We spoke on the phone occasionally and saw each other even less. Regardless of the years in between, we always picked up exactly where we’d left off.
Last week Angelo passed away, suddenly, at 61. I miss him already, knowing he was one of those colorful, vivid characters in life that rarely come along.
I’m profoundly grateful I never collected on Angelo’s “not-past-30” bet. The additional decades afforded many funny, touching, and creative times. But as long as 30 extra years may seem, it wasn’t nearly long enough.
Sandra Polizos, Editor
primeeditor@gmail.com
