I’m not so sure that this is a happy story in a conventional sense, but it’s a meaningful story to me. Hopefully you might glean some semblance of clarity and inspiration from it.
Two years ago, I lost my best friend. Let’s call him Wallace. He had been dealing with a metastasized brain tumor for the better part of a year. He was 24.
Wallace and I did everything together. We grew up with dreams of one day owning our own restaurant. Between semesters and after school, we both worked at a local eatery in our hometown, learning the ins and outs of the kitchen. After college, we moved to the city to chase our dreams of becoming chefs. We took jobs at some of New York’s finest kitchens, worked ourselves ragged every day, and partied even harder every night until our eyeballs throbbed and our wallets protested. We were thick as thieves. Wallace was an amazing cook. He used to say that you had to be crazy to want to work in a kitchen for a living – with all the fire, badmouthing, and unreasonable pressure toward perfection – but it was a good thing he was batshit insane. Our passion never wavered, and it felt right to be working toward something with integrity. If nothing else, we both loved cooking with our hearts held high.
When Wallace was diagnosed, he soon relocated back home for treatment. I tried my best to see him as often possible. But with my long hours and crazy schedule, I could only see him once or twice a month. With each visit, I saw his condition worsen, and I felt absolutely useless. I tried my best to cheer him up. Since he had lost most of his hair, each time I would find him the tackiest wigs to try on. I would read him short stories to pass the time (Vonnegut was a favorite). I would show him dumb restaurant reviews, and we would talk about all the wonderful, stupid things he was going to eat when he got out. But to me it was all a ruse – a terrible ruse that veiled an incorrigible truth: my friend was dying, and it sucked. Bigtime.
On my last visit to Wallace, it was snowing – like today. He was barely awake. I found him a dapper black toupee, which made him chuckle faintly. I knew he was in the late stages of cancer, so I smiled through gritted teeth and misty eyes. I don’t even remember much of what we talked about, to be honest. There have been few moments in my life that have brought me to tears. But at the end of my visit, I lost it. Between sentences broken by sniffles and incoherent mumbles, I told Wallace, “I don’t know what I’m going to do, man. I don’t know. I’m going to miss you, very much.” Wallace took my hand and said, “You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be okay. Just make me proud, and live the dream, you pussy.”
I’ve continued to live and work. I recently got promoted to a sous chef position at one of the best restaurants in the city. And to top it all off, I finally found a legitimate, enthusiastic investor for my first restaurant concept. I have found a solid team of friends who are going to launch the business alongside me. I’m determined to make things work, and I want to see this project through. In a sense, I’m living the dream – for both of us. And every time I pick up a pan or slice through an onion, I am reminded of how precious time is; that it’s not the length of time lived, but the moments experienced that matter. I had many experiences with Wallace – great and small. I can look back on our time together and say unapologetically that we lived well. Fearless ambition, love and curiosity, an unhealthy obsession with tacos – these are Wallace’s legacy upon me. And I live every day happier because of him.