Death Comes Knocking....
I met him when he was teenager, probably 20 years ago. He was a scrawny kid with a high pitched voice, the adopted son of one of the members of my synagogue. I hired him to do some work for me, mostly moving things around, helping out around the shop where I was building an exhibit.
I took him out for lunch once with my son. He had a wicked sense of humor: he told us how he once went into a bookstore and moved the Bibles to the fiction section.
I saw him skateboarding and hanging out with the other dudes in front the local elementary school.
Over the years he would appear in all sorts of places. On his Facebook feed he would be hopping a train out west, or hanging out with friends on the LES.
When I saw him around the hood, we would chat for a few minutes, share a laugh, he would tell me about an adventure. I always thought he was a kid.
But he wasn't: he was 35 when he died this morning of endocarditis. Last time I saw him was a week or two ago, hopping the turnstile at 4th Avenue and 9th Street.