HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ALEX

(From left to right, Alex Lewis, Jon Flom, and Nate Sverlow at The Flame Club, Sacramento)

Today is Alex Lewis’ birthday. He would have been 37 years old, probably still on that Kindle reading every book ever written, probably throwing back shots of gin and vodka, trying to make sense of it all. He was a writer too, saw everyday life at such an askew angle, you’d think he was crazy or genius. He had a no-bullshit affect about him, eyeing down the devil in every uncomfortable situation and speaking his mind. He wouldn’t puff his chest like the other orangutans. He wouldn’t raise his voice. He would flatten his opposition with the cold, existential truth and a wry, upturned lip that only an Irishman could muster in the face of adversity. And it was this energy, this aura that drew me closer to him, whether it be drinking rum while watching him play Assassin’s Creed, whether it be polishing off a 24-pack of beer together during opening weekend of the NBA playoffs, whether it be writing alongside him in collaborative efforts just to see what he would say about the life I had then taken for granted.

It’s undeniable he was a good man, lonely as I’ve ever seen, but good nonetheless. I remember the time Ronnie, Jim, and myself made the trip up to Reno. Alex arrived a couple hours later in his own car. By then, I was down to the felt, playing 5-card draw on one of those digital screens embedded in the bar. He gave me another twenty, not to make any serious cash, but enough to procure as many free drinks as I could until my luck eventually ran out.

He was feeling down himself that night. I had walked with him to the casino floor, and he told me the love of his life, Reneé, had given him the boot. She said he was too intense for her taste. His eyes were red and glistening, and I thought he might break down and cry. Instead, he took a deep breath, slapped my shoulder, and smiled. “I’m ready to go wild.” he said. “Let’s go.”

Later that night, as Jim and I slept, he burst into the hotel room and shouted to the high heavens, “LET’S ALL FUCK NATE!” Then he jumped on top of me and started shaking the bed. I rolled off onto the floor and respectfully declined. Ronnie later told me Alex had mixed some pills with a dozen or so cocktails during their late night/early morning rounds. Of course, when Alex sobered up later that morning (no hangovers with this man), he had transmogrified back into the perfect Irish gentleman, with his unassuming candor and charming, soft-spoken speech. He had a broken recollection of the previous night. He thought I was joking when I brought up his preternatural howl for an orgy. “No. No. Cut it out.” he said, smiling. And I left it at that.

Though I had only known Alex a couple years, I like to think we had become close friends. We’d often hang at Ronnie and Jim’s apartment, or his apartment with L, or my own apartment with Mandi on the other side of town. Sometimes we’d walk together to La Garnacha for a couple tacos. And other times we’d walk a little farther down 16th Street to The Flame Club, where we’d claim a booth and go drink for drink (and they poured them strong) until one of us tapped out. He even offered me a job as a paralegal at the firm where he worked. “Twelve dollars an hour,” I told him. “Ten.” he said, sipping his gin and tonic. “Eleven.” I countered. “Ten.” he said. “Forget it.” I said. And we drank together the rest of the evening, not saying much. He was working his way up to becoming a lawyer, and he would have made a damn fine one if you ask me. If only, if only…

But that’s the way life works, isn’t it? Moments that, at the time, seem trivial become our throbbing centers of anguish and regret. I don’t know if it was the sad story he was writing that fateful night or the fact he wrote it at his father’s apartment (who had been suffering from cancer), or the fact that Reneé had all but forgotten him, but he drank enough for himself, for me, for the world, for all eternity. And he fell awkwardly on the patio steps, hit his head, and bled out alone under a cold, indifferent moon.

Still, I see Alex Lewis every day… a 3 year-old boy now, tall and vibrant, with the same wry, upturned lip as his namesake. Alex Lewis Sverlow, my son, you are named after my dear friend. Here, in our hearts, he lives forever. Let’s sing him happy birthday today as your mother pours me another gin and tonic.