Dave Stories: #1
(First in a series of stories about my dear friend, Dave Anderson. 1960–2016)
My dear friend, Dave, just died last night. Seeing those words on the screen in front of me — “Dave died last night” — is so surreal.
Dave is — I won’t say “was” just yet — one of my dearest friends. He and I met when he was the feature and I was the headliner at the Newport Beach Laugh Stop. My god, that is close to 30 years ago. And we became fast friends. I laughed with Dave like with no one else. I loved how we could make each other laugh. And he completely accepted me. Completely. I can’t recall one time when he was angry at me or mean or abrupt. He was always honest with me. He could make me laugh at myself, the best, most humbling, most gleeful thing.
I am, and have always been, one prone to worry. People who know me will gasp at the sheer understatement of this. I am the personification of worry. I am what a sculptor would sculpt if commissioned to sculpt something for the “Worry” exhibit. Going back to my beginnings, it is clear that this started very early. In kindergarten, I wouldn’t play with blocks in school because I was afraid that I would do it “wrong.”
One time, about 25 years ago, Dave came with me to Plummer’s, a place where one could buy relatively inexpensive, modern, utilitarian furniture. I had just bought a little house, my first and only, with two bedrooms, and I was buying myself a desk for the second bedroom. I was so anxious about money. I’d spent almost everything I had on my house and, although I was making money, at the time, so much of it kept going out, as is what tends to happen when you buy a house. Whenever someone rang the doorbell, I grabbed my checkbook. “Okay. How much?”
So, I bought this desk, white laminate fiberboard, that I had to put together, Ikea-style. (Dave, of course, was going to help me because that’s what Dave did because he was the best friend that anyone could ever want). We were walking out of the store to go around to the back of the building, to Receiving, to pick up the as-yet unassembled desk. My brow was furrowed, I was looking down at the ground, walking slowly. I was angst-ridden about it all, about everything, about what I’d bought, about what I’d done, about what I hadn’t done, about what I’d eaten, about what I hadn’t eaten. Whatever.
And suddenly, Dave just grabbed my hand, pulled me down the sidewalk, and said, “You need to skip more!” And with that we skipped down the block, around the huge building, and, in a few moments, we were laughing and breathless. I had heard something that is, and will always be, one of the best and simplest lessons in my life, to date. “You need to skip more.”
Do I follow Dave’s advice? Rarely. Because I’m not as wise as Dave. Or maybe I don’t have the faith that Dave had. I so want to skip through life. Sometimes it occurs to me to start skipping, and then my brain shifts into that analytical gear that it tends to find so easily, and it starts thinking, dammit, thinking, and I forget to be joyous, and I forget to skip, and I’m in the pain.
I think that, sometimes, when someone you love dies, you are left with the distilled essence of that relationship. I know how much Dave loved me. I know that, more than anything, Dave wanted me to be happy. He knew how much I struggled. And he knew that my greatest accomplishment in life would be when I discovered how to be happy, how to allow happiness to happen to me. I really believe that.
So, in Dave’s honor and memory, I will remember to skip, and I will do it. I won’t think about it. I will do it.
So, if you see me, please remind me, because, as smart as I am, I am slow to learn. My brain keeps getting in the way.
I love you, Dave Anderson. I always will.
