In 1991, I had one of my best days on earth (a line the Trash Can Sinatras would eventually write in a 2016 song) when I stumbled into walking around New York City with most of the band (the TCS, of course) the day after their CBGB gig. I’d never met a more charming bunch. The delight they took in everything about the city was infectious, their earnestness like a bit of magic dropped from the sky. A record label executive guided us around the city, ultimately arriving at the publishing offices at Warner-Chappell Music, where the guys had a meeting with Frank Military, the man who’d signed Sinatra himself (as I understood it).

Frank, Stephen, and their (roadie, I believe) Larry were all delightful, but John made a big impression on me. He offered me half of his Kit-Kat bar (breakfast of champions) and when I asked  why the band went with “trash can,” which is something of an Americanism for where you throw your waste, he quipped that they’d considered being the “Rubbish Bin Crosbys” at one point.

But the part that sticks with me even clearer than that is when I – who still lived in Boston at the time and was playing hooky from college to be in New York City – pointed out the Chrysler building and called it the Empire State. Later, when we saw the Empire State Building itself, the record company guide – who had been side-eyeing me all this time – made a point of indicating that no, this was the Empire State, not my ignorant suggestion, John whispered to me, “We liked your building better.”

I hadn’t known kindness came in such a gentle flavor.

I had to dash for the train later that afternoon, but before I went, John handed me a small paper bag with a note and a small cat souvenir he’d purchased earlier that day. I had to promise not to open it until I was on the train, and I kept that promise.

Small, extraordinary, ordinary surprises everywhere.

I’ve been in touch Frank (largely) and John (occasionally) over the years. Along with Paul, they were kind enough to give me permission to use one of their lyrics in my debut book. When they came to play in New York City, where I’ve lived for many years, I always went out to see them. The last time I saw John in person was after a show at Joe’s Pub in 2017 (how is that nine years ago!) when without a word he came directly over to me and gave me a bear hug.

John left us on August 3 after a brief illness, according to the band’s social media. I heard the news and stood in the grocery store while getting a key cut and just kept saying, “no, no, no.”

What does it mean to mourn the loss of a talented, good man – one you never got to know that well, but wished you had? That’s where I am right now. Friends who’ve known me a long time will understand, possibly. The loss is a shared one, this sudden, unwanted departure, and I’m sure we all have our own stories from all those last years, all those last songs. I bet they’re hilarious, raucous, but also full of surprising kindness.

There’s never enough time, even when there’s all the time in the world. As John, Frank, and Paul wrote in another song: The hardest thing of all – goodbye.

Brokenhearted,

R