My Audiobiography: No One To Run With by The Allman Brothers Band
Mike and I hit it off right away. He possessed this manic energy where it felt like he could break out into uncontrollable laughter at any moment.
He oftentimes did.
We both found in each other a creative spirit that somehow got trapped in a job that seemed to exist for the sheer purpose of trying to snuff it out.
While Mike and I shared a similar appreciation for the arts (and the absurd), I should make clear that we were, in no way, equals in its application.
Though seemingly directionless, Mike was extremely creative, well-read, and wise beyond his 24 years. And although he never made me feel his intellectual inferior, it was clear that he could run circles around me on just about any topic, had he wanted.
The both of us held the same position of Associate Director. Mike was an AD for a Florida sports channel, and I supported a music television network from Canada. While the title sounded cool, the job attached to it sucked.
Our sole responsibility was to make sure that the day’s programming ran on time without any technical difficulties. It was especially critical that the commercials aired without incident.
To our good fortune, Mike and I were put up in an office across the street from the main building where the head end — and just about every other employee— was located.
There were only five of us on the top floor of that two-story building. Mike and I somehow ended up with a large room all to ourselves. Even though we had plenty of room to spread out, we decided to push our desks together.
And holy shit did we get no work done.
Our work days were a constant stream of Office Olympics competitions, gin rummy marathons, random dares, CD listening parties, creative writing exercises and all sorts of sundry shenanigans.
Every two weeks, Mike and I would host elaborate (for a couple of kids with no money) Friday afternoon socials, where we would serve imported coffee and dessert to select co-workers, by invitation only. The bold scent of Hawaiian Kona or Sumatra Mandheling would waft through the entire office and hang in the air until quitting time.
Man, those parties were fun. And we were pretty damn good hosts for a couple of knucklehead kids. Looking back, that might have been our true calling.
When we weren’t bouncing off the office walls, the two of us would be bounding through the back streets of Queens in his pale-blue, five-speed Chevy hatchback with its deteriorating floorboard, headed to a park or a deli or nowhere.
Mike drove like he thought and spoke and lived: on that razor’s edge, leaning just enough on this side of sanity to keep from completely toppling over into the abyss.
There was a frenetic beauty to it all.
One of our favorite excursions was to the local pool hall. The place was pretty empty during the day, save a few regulars and other like-minded workforce escapees. Mike and I would queue up the jukebox, chalk up the cue and play a few rounds of eight ball for office bragging rights.
Our pool sessions often started with one of our signature tracks, No One To Run With by The Allman Brothers.
As we meandered around the table, talking smack about each other’s suspect pool skills, we had no idea how prophetic this song would be.
Within a year of finding, and rescuing, each other, Mike would head to his parents’ vacant townhouse in Clearwater, Florida, to pursue a writing career and I would be getting married and taking yet another job I totally hated.
Mike eventually did topple over that edge and had to be committed. I fared only slightly better in my endeavors.
Nobody left to run with anymore,
Nobody wants to do the crazy things we used to do before
Miss you, my crazy, brilliant friend.
Join my newsletter, Reboot Camp Weekly, and get my free eBook that’ll help you live your best life after 40.
