I first met Michael at One Earth Future. He came to my cube one day and asked me to go on an egg run for him. It became a regular habit. Everyday, much to the chagrin of our manager, at 9:45 AM, I’d hear “Egg run, Jay?” and we’d take off over the prairie paved-over parking lot, past the Benihana’s and make our way through the cars and campers boon-docking at the Walmart Super Center.

Walmart

We’d greet the greeters and make our way to the refrigerated tub in the back of the store where Michael would pick out one, sometimes two, packages of hardboiled eggs, de-shelled, but in a brine and in a plastic packaging that will live upon this Earth for a millennium to come.

We’d pass by the garden center, always. It was a ritual. Michael would purchase seeds when the season was right or a soaker hose or whatever he needed for his garden. Then, after we said good-bye to the greeters, we’d head back to the think tank. Michael would joke that he would sign up to be a Walmart greeter when he retired. Or maybe he wouldn’t, maybe he’d wind up as a boondocker, his true passion; one of the campers and prairie schooners taking advantage of the Walmart’s lax enforcement of overnight parking. Those twenty minutes of truancy were an education to me. We’d gossip about work, talk technology, philosophy, or international experiences.

Goat Hill

Michael became interested in the area where my wife and I purchased a house. We called it Goat Hill. We might be the only ones that still call it that. It was an “up-and coming neighborhood” a few blocks across the tracks from where he lived in the Sunnyside neighborhood of Denver. We would frequent a strip mall a few blocks from my house after work. It was our Tortilla Flats.

Woody’s Wings and Things

A few doors down from the Lowell Mart, squeezed in by a mediocre pizza joint is a restaurant called Woody’s Wings and Things. The mascot is some kind of redheaded blue eagle with a plate of hot wings. The “Things,” are primarily Cambodian food. What made us regulars where the soft shell crabs, mistakenly priced at a dollar on the menu, a printshop error, and the waitstaff. 

“Good people,” Michael would say.

We were always at Woody’s, sucking down thai ice teas and watching the families at the other booths and tables order exotic hot pots from off menu. Michael claimed, and I think there is some truth to it, that Woody’s also made the best french fries. There were times when I would get back to Denver, jet lagged and fresh off a twenty hour flight from some dodgy place in Africa, or once after a visit to see the FARC in Colombia, and I’d text Michael to meet at Woody’s. When I settled into that booth, that’s when I knew I was home. 

I don’t think he would be offended for me to say it, but Michael developed a crush on Sophie, one of the waitresses. Half of the intrigue of Woody’s for him was asking her to tell him about what it was like back home. Then Sophie suddenly moved from her apartment in the back of the restaurant to somewhere in Black Hawk. The soft shell crabs turned out not to be a dollar after all and then a notice appeared on the door stating the restaurant was being fined for a health code violation.

Kenny G’s

We explored other parts of the shopping center too. One day after Woody’s, we paid $20 to get into Kenny G’s, a rough and tumble bar at the end of the strip, for the Floyd Mayweather fight. Kenny G, the owner, hired all the girls from the Player’s Club, a gentleman’s caberet on Federal, to waitress for the event in gaudy maids uniforms and bunny lingerie. Kenny G bet the entire bar on Mayweather, doubled down loudly, and had his bets confirmed over the PA system by the DJ he hired for the evening. As the rounds of thefight went on, the disco lights spun deliriously. Mayweather started to go down. When the fight was called, Kenny G was nowhere to be found. Michael and I saw a yellow Lamborghini idling in the parking lot as we left with the doors open. For a long time after the bar was boarded until it reopened DBA as Sports Bar.

We would tell that story back and forth to each other. Michael asked Woody’s what happened to Sophie and what happened to Kenny G. No one could give him a straight answer. After the fight, we went across the street to Las Sierras where we ordered G&T’s served in clear plastic cups and listened to an ancient cowboy croon to country karaoke.

Westy’s Cafe

Michael continued to visit the shopping center. He liked a place called Westy’s Cafe, on the other side the Lowell mart, sandwiched in between that store and the Workforce Now with the “No Sleeping” sign posted on a column by the front door. Sometimes Michael would invite me out to breakfast over there. There wasn’t much for me to eat there except the chile rellenoes, but I still accepted because it meant hanging out with Michael.

“Mikey!”

The waitstaff would cheer whenever we’d shuffle through the door and past the old timers; at the end there everyone was clad in masks there was always a table ready for us.

“I tip well here,” Michael would say with a wink. “Good people, salt of the Earth.”

Westy’s was a blue-collar diner with plenty of tattoos, church-going families, some who also openly carried firearms, and a glimpse back to a fading Denver, a place not yet touched by gentrification.

“Look at that,” Michael would say pointing to a sticker hung near the gum ball machine by the door. “Goat Hill certified!”

I would find him there with a New York Times or a paperback of some classic middle school literature, like Billy Budd, or an anthropological study on Hopi spiritual practices. He’d tuck them away to the side of the table when his food came, but still glance over as he ate at the words, even in company. He was hungry for knowledge, experience, and companionship.

Michael gave me a sense of community. He loved connecting with people from the ivory tower to the greasy spoon. He was bold enough to approach a stranger and curious to learn about who they were; their stories and their songs. In our hyperconnected world, which Michael helped to build, that’s rare these days.

Michael was a good colleague, neighbor, and friend. Right now we need more Michaels in the world.

Michael, you will be missed.