Mark

Well, The Teet pretty much said it.

I hadn't seen Mark in a while -- most of what I knew of his life in the last year or was what I heard through the grapevine -- but he'd left me a voice mail a few months back, when I was, er, trying to figure out job stuff. As was his way, the message was embarrassingly complimentary and friendly. Mark was the kind of person who could be overwhelming with his gregariousness. He loved telling a story -- either by bending someone's ear or putting pen to paper -- and he could be equal parts engaging and exhausting, his energy especially remarkable for someone more than 10 years my senior, working two jobs and parenting a teenage daughter.

When I think of Mark, I think of riding in his car with him to lunch, the empty soda cans rattling their way back and forth across the dashboard. I think of his non-stop intensity, the way he seemed to put his whole body into smoking a cigarette. I think of how fondly he talked about his daughter, and the affection I saw between them at his going-away party way back when. They seemed more like teenaged friends than parent and child.

I'd left by the time he made it to our office Monday, and even if I had been there, there's a good chance we wouldn't have exchanged much more than a passing hello, as I'm sort of a horrible grouch most Mondays. Still, I regret missing the opportunity.

Mark Major, I wish you could have found what you were looking for.