R.I.P. Pete
Pete died in April. There’s still no obituary. Yesterday, Facebook reminded me that it was his birthday and that he would have been 52. The last communication we had was when he “liked” my post announcing I was moving from New York back to Seattle a year ago.
I met Pete in a rehab program in Manhattan. Even after we all stopped going, there were five of us who still regularly went out for dinner-Pete the investment banker, George the director from the Natural History Museum, Erik the corporate lawyer, Tani the orthodox Jewish entrepreneur, and me: the tiny Persian chick who apparently had an affinity for hanging out with older guys. We all used to joke that if we weren’t sober, we’d probably all have the best time together. “You mean you’re not having the best time with me already, kid?” Pete joked. He regularly called me “kid,” which admittedly always made me feel younger, better.
After Pete fell off the wagon, he moved to his place in Vermont for a while. Then he moved down to Dewey Beach in Delaware to live with his on-again/off-again ex-girlfriend from high school. He ping-ponged around a bit, but always came back through New York to see his elderly parents. He always knew the best places to eat, always had a funny wise thing to say. “You’re going to be just fine,” he said once, maybe eight years ago, mysteriously. “You won’t end up alone like me,” he insisted. “You’re just in your thirties, and you’re pretty.” (I never mentioned that he was good looking too and thus his logic didn’t make sense.) There was something definitive and all-knowing about Pete and when he said something, I took it as truth. “Tell you what, kid,” he said when I begged him not to leave Manhattan. “When you’ve been in the City more than ten years, you just gotta get out. People who stay here more than ten years… something happens to them. Take my advice on that.”
He was a boy in a grown man’s body. He still listened to new music, and he went to shows every week. He loved women and traveling, and he spent money on expensive things like suits and watches, and he loved eating good food and having the newest gadgets. He was the person you asked for recommendations about the finer things in life. He was a cartoon character, a “Mr. Big” from Sex and the City or a likeable version of one of the guys from American Psycho. We used to go to his place on the Upper West Side to watch HBO. It was during the time of "Boardwalk Empire."
When I found out he was dead, I knew immediately that it had to have been suicide. (How, Pete? How did you do it in the end? What happened? Why did you go before I could talk to you one more time?) I reached out to his girlfriend, his high-school sweetheart. She never replied. And I will never know what happened. Meanwhile, the birthday wishes on his Facebook page continue to scroll through, some without knowing about his passing, others finding out just now, months later. Mixed in with the posts, his ex-girlfriend provides updates about his beloved dog, his aging mother, the spreading of his ashes. R.I.P., Pete. We miss you.
I met Pete in a rehab program in Manhattan. Even after we all stopped going, there were five of us who still regularly went out for dinner-Pete the investment banker, George the director from the Natural History Museum, Erik the corporate lawyer, Tani the orthodox Jewish entrepreneur, and me: the tiny Persian chick who apparently had an affinity for hanging out with older guys. We all used to joke that if we weren’t sober, we’d probably all have the best time together. “You mean you’re not having the best time with me already, kid?” Pete joked. He regularly called me “kid,” which admittedly always made me feel younger, better.
After Pete fell off the wagon, he moved to his place in Vermont for a while. Then he moved down to Dewey Beach in Delaware to live with his on-again/off-again ex-girlfriend from high school. He ping-ponged around a bit, but always came back through New York to see his elderly parents. He always knew the best places to eat, always had a funny wise thing to say. “You’re going to be just fine,” he said once, maybe eight years ago, mysteriously. “You won’t end up alone like me,” he insisted. “You’re just in your thirties, and you’re pretty.” (I never mentioned that he was good looking too and thus his logic didn’t make sense.) There was something definitive and all-knowing about Pete and when he said something, I took it as truth. “Tell you what, kid,” he said when I begged him not to leave Manhattan. “When you’ve been in the City more than ten years, you just gotta get out. People who stay here more than ten years… something happens to them. Take my advice on that.”
He was a boy in a grown man’s body. He still listened to new music, and he went to shows every week. He loved women and traveling, and he spent money on expensive things like suits and watches, and he loved eating good food and having the newest gadgets. He was the person you asked for recommendations about the finer things in life. He was a cartoon character, a “Mr. Big” from Sex and the City or a likeable version of one of the guys from American Psycho. We used to go to his place on the Upper West Side to watch HBO. It was during the time of "Boardwalk Empire."
When I found out he was dead, I knew immediately that it had to have been suicide. (How, Pete? How did you do it in the end? What happened? Why did you go before I could talk to you one more time?) I reached out to his girlfriend, his high-school sweetheart. She never replied. And I will never know what happened. Meanwhile, the birthday wishes on his Facebook page continue to scroll through, some without knowing about his passing, others finding out just now, months later. Mixed in with the posts, his ex-girlfriend provides updates about his beloved dog, his aging mother, the spreading of his ashes. R.I.P., Pete. We miss you.