Goodbye, Old Friend

by Jen Telger

I find myself in a quandary. How do I say goodbye to someone I haven’t spoken to in twenty years? “Gosh, Jen,” you might say. “Twenty years is a long time. Do you really need to say goodbye?” The thing is, while we haven’t spoken, save through hello’s passed through mutual friends and coworkers, what I learned from him, and what he gifted to me through who he was, are things that I rely on still today, and I think of him often.

I learned yesterday that Brian passed away this week, and it hit hard. He was my first boss out of college. Young, extremely smart, good-looking (as I was frequently reminded by people on the production floor), and full of frenetic energy, he was a force. But he was a quiet force and one worthy of respect.

Fiercely private, there wasn’t much he ever shared about his personal life with the general public. For some reason, people out on the floor routinely thought I would be a fount of information worth dipping their curiosity buckets into. They always came up dry. What little I knew of him, his childhood, his adulthood, wasn’t mine to share, and so I just told them to go ask him themselves. I doubt any of them ever did.

Here is what I can share: Brian was a fantastic guy and a great boss. From my very first day on the job, he allowed me to grow, to stretch my young, ignorant, eager, and very likely over-confident mind. He allowed me to make mistakes, fix those mistakes, and learn from them. He didn’t scold but made sure I knew what the issue was and gave me room and confidence to solve it.

He was patient with me and allowed me to buzz in his ear constantly, asking a zillion questions that had nothing to do with my actual job, but did have to do with our department’s function. As a result, I learned a ton!

He allowed me to indulge my silly and sarcastic sides and matched me quip for quip, though frequently rolling his eyes. In that band-of-brothers group, with only a few of us women in the department, it was nice to be thrown an equal pitch.

We had conversations via his boxing nun puppet, which he eventually gifted to me before I left to get married. I had her until two years ago, when even the good Lord could no longer hold her up.

His was the first boss signature I learned to passably forge. It came in handy for both of us and the skill was honed for years afterward and with other bosses (with their permission, of course). Being that he was a lefty, it was an extra feather in my cap.

Brian could be a real pain in the ass sometimes. He would get surly, irascible, and pretend to ignore me and others. It was like dealing with a cranky older brother (which I had plenty of experience with). But even when he was crotchety, I would often see him walk away trying not to smile, or at least to not let me see it if he could help it. Mr. Tough Guy.

Of course, like all of us, Brian had his demons; some were of the bi-pedal, DNA variety, and others were more self-inflicted. He could have been a real jerk if he’d wanted to. But he wasn’t. Back then, he drummed and exercised like a maniac to relieve stress, but he never took anything out on me. He always treated me with respect. He asked my opinions. He stood up for me. He fought for me. He never treated me as less than and always let me know my worth, even as a newbie. He grew my confidence. I remember one instance when he stepped into a conversation to set another guy straight. He didn’t have to, but he did it, like I was his little sister. And then he walked away and let it rest. I don’t think I ever told him how much that meant to me.

These things I have carried with me over the years, both professionally and personally, and I hope I have passed them on to others as Brian did to me. He was a tough act to follow.

And so, I’m not going to say goodbye. I am going to say hello each time he taps me on the shoulder and reminds me where I first learned something. I’m going to smile at the memories, even though they were long ago. I’m going to be happy that he is no longer in pain, whatever it was that had recently debilitated him so. And I’m going to be grateful, knowing that I am a better person for having known him.

Rest peacefully, old friend – I know you’re up there drummin’, and that you will be missed by many down here.