Loss: Michael McGauhey

I just came back from the memorial service for Michael McGauhey, who was the building manager for Pack Place and by way of being a good friend of mine the almost five years I worked there. It was a nice service: packed, since Michael had the great gift of making friends among everyone. People stood up and spoke about him; somebody played an Emmylou Harris song (Michael loved him some Emmylou) and all his many, many biking buddies showed up in full lycra regalia and, at the end, rode off all together to make a loop around downtown with a police escort. It was lovely. Except that I wish it hadn't happened. That's the problem with memorials: you see a lot of old friends, it's nice, but given the choice you'd definitely prefer the event never to have happened.

There were sheets of paper for people to write memories on but I couldn't do it there, so I'll do it here. I keep thinking about an article I read not long ago on the Tzaddikim, the thirty six righteous men (actually, let's hope they're men AND women, for god's sake) who, unknown even to themselves, keep the world from ending simply by being, well, good. I wouldn't be a bit surprised to find out that Michael was one of them. He was one of the few truly good people I think I've ever known, and I'll include his often satirical, biting and hilarious wit in his many good qualities. I've seen Michael roll his eyes; I've heard him say mean and funny things - but I never knew him, ever, to be truly mean or judgmental or cruel, in any way. Even about politics.

We made up a religion, once, Michael and Angie and I, bored and standing outside Pack Place one afternoon. The religion focused around Babe, the Giant Ox at the Mountain State Fair, who I said encapsulated all the mystical qualities of the Buddha. Michael liked the idea of having a freakishly large farm animal as a deity and we ran with it, cracking jokes that I don't remember and discussing the necessary qualities of gods, in which standing still for long periods of time was key.

We made dark jokes about events and event planners; we would go back in his office and quietly curse the follies of fools and I knew I could rely on him in any circumstance. He gave me mild, gentle shit about smoking and drinking; we agreed that Republicans were demons. On one First Night when I, cranky & fed up, was drinking pungent whiskey out of a coffee cup behind the desk of the art museum, he came by to laugh at me and tell me he could smell my coffee across Pack Place. Oh hell. It never occurred to me that he wouldn't beat the cancer that finally got him. I told him of course he'd be fine, and he thought so too. When I got to the service today I thought immediately, "It's too crowded; Michael's going to pitch a fit," and then I thought, "It's too crowded; I think I'll sneak in back and hang out with Michael in his office." I can't imagine that he isn't there. I asked myself, as I was leaving the service, why the assholes seem to stay with us, while the angels go away, and then I thought, "You know, that's the kind of conversation I should have with Michael, he likes conversations like that." And so do I, and I mourn the loss of the friend I used to have them with.