*requiescat in pace*
Such a formal phrase for such a profound loss.
On Friday, I lost my friend and roommate.
Peter was many things—complicated and annoying, generous and deeply concerned with doing the right thing, even when it was difficult. He had a unique way of seeing the world, which made him both incredibly detail-oriented and, at times, maddening to interact with. He would often repeat the same question over and over, searching for a better answer or a clearer explanation. It always sounded like an argument, and as his frustration grew, so did his volume—until he was practically yelling. What I didn’t understand at first was that he wasn’t angry at me; he was frustrated with the communication itself, with the inability to fully understand or be understood.
Peter became my roommate July 1, 2010. I had a new friend—maybe a girlfriend—who wanted to move in and had hired him off Craigslist to help move some furniture. As payment, instead of cash, he accepted a standing offer to move in if he ever needed a place. A month later, he took me up on it. And for over 15 years, I had the honor, frustration, and pleasure of having him as my roommate.
Peter had a degree in Mechanical Engineering but never really explained why he didn’t pursue it in a traditional sense. Instead, he took on odd jobs—like refurbishing an ancient dumbwaiter in a house in Beverly Hills. He had to reverse-engineer 80-year-old wiring to make it work, and he did exactly that, even if it took longer than expected. I wasn’t involved, except when he needed a sounding board for his thoughts.
He once mentioned working for Westinghouse but never elaborated on what he did there. Later, he spent years as a parts and project expediter for an air conditioning contractor, then worked with a plumbing expediter whose family took him in for a time. He formed a deep friendship with their daughter and often regretted never finding the courage to ask her to marry him.
Peter was intensely focused on nutrition. He would argue about it at the drop of a hat—sometimes even with my mother, who had a master’s degree in Public Health and Nutrition. I’m grateful she never felt the need to contradict him too harshly. He feared cancer, which ran in his father’s family, and in the end, it was cancer that took him.
He truly believed he could out-research the professionals. He argued with his doctors, resisted their advice, and trusted his own findings over their expertise. That, unfortunately, was his downfall.
Peter loved two cats, Mama and Stretch, both of whom he rescued as ferals from a house where he had lived. Their deaths devastated him. He enjoyed the company of my five cats, but they were never quite the same as his own.
He had his passions—instrumental music, travel videos, and unexpected sports like transatlantic yacht racing. He loved hiking and being outdoors. Peter was very proud of the fact that he could outrun most of the other folk on the trail, he certainly blew by me! He had once been a full-time ski bum, growing up in Vermont, where skiing seemed to be a family tradition. He always wanted to take up drumming, thinking it would be both interesting and fun.
He stockpiled food for his health regimen, often complaining about the effort it took to prepare his special meals—mostly vegan, heavy on grains, beans, and fresh vegetables. He was particular. No milk, no butter, nothing processed, and nothing too spicy. But if I cooked something that met his standards, he would accept it.
Peter was an individual. He was liberal and deeply concerned about the direction of the country, staying as informed as possible, though I think he found most politicians disappointing. He voted, obsessing over every decision. He was both an optimist and a pessimist—somehow, at the same time. He would watch MSNBC with me, but I had to remind him not to yell at the commentators.
His food tracking was meticulous—he weighed and logged everything he ate, down to the gram. He recorded nutritional values on everything from election mailers to legal pads to Post-it notes. There are literally boxes of them.
His sister and brother-in-law came out to help clean up some of the paperwork and posessions, before we flew back to his family's home. (We had to wait for clearance because of the Oxygen that he required.) They were kind and respectful, but he and his sister were arguing almost immediately. That’s family love, I suppose—there’s no other explanation.
For someone who insisted he had no friends—aside from a single person I never met and the woman he nearly built a life with—he touched many lives. My neighbors, people from across the alley, even those in my complex—so many have come by to say goodbye, often with tears in their eyes. He was loved. He was a good man. And for those who believe, he was a good Christian. I am not, but I can say with certainty that he cared deeply.
[Photo below: Peter at the gate, departing for his final flight.]
He was determined to make it home and he did, and was increadibly upbeat despite some pain. He was happy. Here, at the desired destination at the family home, he was at peace.
I like to think that my mom—after her harp lessons—is looking for him right now.
Peter, I love you. You were a very good, loyal, and yes, sometimes frustrating, friend and roommate. After 15 years, I can say without hesitation: It was a privilege, sir.
I will miss you.
Damn it.
