R. was my best friend, mentor, and on more than one occasion my salvation. After I lost my gallery he covered my rent for 6 months and later refused repayment. At his memorial service I was stunned to see dozens of people I had never met, one after another, hour after hour, rise to honor the memory of the friend and colleague they’d had the privilege to know. What would it be like, to be a man of that quality? When the time comes, who will step up to speak for me? Perhaps my bitter son, or my ex-wife, who blames me for him. Or Ritchie the bartender, who thinks my name is Mike, or the girl at the food truck, who once smiled at something I said.