“His name was never in the paper. He’s not the finest character that ever lived. But he’s a human being, and a terrible thing is happening to him. So attention must be paid. He’s not to be allowed to fall into his grave like an old dog. Attention, attention must be finally paid to such a person.” –Arthur Miller, Death of a Salesman
This Sunday evening my two students taking the AP Latin examination came to my apartment for supper and a study session. About twenty minutes into the study session, with quiche in the oven and a salad in the refrigerator, there was a knock at my door.
This Sunday evening my two students taking the AP Latin examination came to my apartment for supper and a study session. About twenty minutes into the study session, with quiche in the oven and a salad in the refrigerator, there was a knock at my door.
“Asheville Police!” that someone said.
I opened the door and found a policeman built like a bull looming over me in the hallway.
“Are you the superintendent of the building?” he asked.
“No, but I do vacuum and clean the hallways,” I replied, somewhat stupidly.
“Do you know of a Steven Riley in Apartment 1?”
Yes,” I answered, though I had no idea whether Steve spelled his name Riley or Reilly. “I’ve known him for years.”
“We’re looking for his sister.”
“What’s up?”
Here the officer paused. He looked apologetic. “Mr. Riley passed away in Cherokee this weekend.”
I felt that churning in my stomach that has recently become all too familiar a sensation. “Steve?”
He nodded.
“I can’t believe it.”
“I’m sorry,” the officer said.
And then we talked. He couldn’t tell me why or how Steve died, except to say natural causes, and I didn’t ask for more, because those details are for the next of kin, who is Steve’s sister. I made a couple of fast phone calls to get his sister’s phone number, took the officer out to show him Steve’s company car in case the license plate would help locate his sister, and then sent an email to our landlord and owner of the building regarding this sad news.
The officer was both professional and sympathetic. When he was talking, I thought to myself how hard it must be to do his job, to track down the relatives of a dead man.
After the officer left, I returned to my apartment and continued my session with my AP students. My reaction to Steve’s death may seem cold to some, but death has already thrown my students for a loop twice in the last four weeks. I wasn’t about to let the bastard win a third time.
Now, let me tell you about Steve. Much of what I will say is based on conjecture, but it needs to be said.
Why? Because someone from this building where we lived together should remember him.
First, Steve was a gentleman. He was invariably polite. He was kind to me and to others.
When in Asheville, he was a loner. Like a good gambler, he kept his cards close to his chest. In the last seven years, I can’t remember anyone visiting his apartment. Often he was away, sometimes for months and months at a time, as he was an engineer who helped design airports. He did tell me of going to parties with friends where he worked.
His father was an air traffic controller.
Steve smoked, drank bourbon, and enjoyed gambling, which is undoubtedly why he was at Cherokee. He owned a motorcycle, which at the moment is sitting in the garage at the back of the apartment building. I never saw him ride that bike, but I did hear him revving the engine at times.
To the best of my knowledge, Steve never married. As far as I know, he had no children.
He had a wry sense of humor. He often made me laugh.
He was a liberal. We avoided talking politics.
Steve had a quiet way about him that made you want to listen to him. I’m sure that was one reason he was so successful at directing different work crews in places like Puerto Rico and Knoxville.
He loved sunshine and spring weather.
He surprised me once. He was reading a book on his porch. When I asked the subject, he told me that he was a Van Gogh fan. He had visited various European galleries featuring the work of Vincent Van Gogh as well as places the artist had lived.
Often in the late afternoon he sat on the porch, sipping his drink, smoking, and listening to something on his headset. I’ll always wonder whether he was listening to some sort of commentary or music.
I will miss my neighbor. By no means were we close friends, but we knew bits and pieces about each other. I will miss him.
Steve was a good man. For believers, he was also a soul known to God.
R.I.P.
I opened the door and found a policeman built like a bull looming over me in the hallway.
“Are you the superintendent of the building?” he asked.
“No, but I do vacuum and clean the hallways,” I replied, somewhat stupidly.
“Do you know of a Steven Riley in Apartment 1?”
Yes,” I answered, though I had no idea whether Steve spelled his name Riley or Reilly. “I’ve known him for years.”
“We’re looking for his sister.”
“What’s up?”
Here the officer paused. He looked apologetic. “Mr. Riley passed away in Cherokee this weekend.”
I felt that churning in my stomach that has recently become all too familiar a sensation. “Steve?”
He nodded.
“I can’t believe it.”
“I’m sorry,” the officer said.
And then we talked. He couldn’t tell me why or how Steve died, except to say natural causes, and I didn’t ask for more, because those details are for the next of kin, who is Steve’s sister. I made a couple of fast phone calls to get his sister’s phone number, took the officer out to show him Steve’s company car in case the license plate would help locate his sister, and then sent an email to our landlord and owner of the building regarding this sad news.
The officer was both professional and sympathetic. When he was talking, I thought to myself how hard it must be to do his job, to track down the relatives of a dead man.
After the officer left, I returned to my apartment and continued my session with my AP students. My reaction to Steve’s death may seem cold to some, but death has already thrown my students for a loop twice in the last four weeks. I wasn’t about to let the bastard win a third time.
Now, let me tell you about Steve. Much of what I will say is based on conjecture, but it needs to be said.
Why? Because someone from this building where we lived together should remember him.
First, Steve was a gentleman. He was invariably polite. He was kind to me and to others.
When in Asheville, he was a loner. Like a good gambler, he kept his cards close to his chest. In the last seven years, I can’t remember anyone visiting his apartment. Often he was away, sometimes for months and months at a time, as he was an engineer who helped design airports. He did tell me of going to parties with friends where he worked.
His father was an air traffic controller.
Steve smoked, drank bourbon, and enjoyed gambling, which is undoubtedly why he was at Cherokee. He owned a motorcycle, which at the moment is sitting in the garage at the back of the apartment building. I never saw him ride that bike, but I did hear him revving the engine at times.
To the best of my knowledge, Steve never married. As far as I know, he had no children.
He had a wry sense of humor. He often made me laugh.
He was a liberal. We avoided talking politics.
Steve had a quiet way about him that made you want to listen to him. I’m sure that was one reason he was so successful at directing different work crews in places like Puerto Rico and Knoxville.
He loved sunshine and spring weather.
He surprised me once. He was reading a book on his porch. When I asked the subject, he told me that he was a Van Gogh fan. He had visited various European galleries featuring the work of Vincent Van Gogh as well as places the artist had lived.
Often in the late afternoon he sat on the porch, sipping his drink, smoking, and listening to something on his headset. I’ll always wonder whether he was listening to some sort of commentary or music.
I will miss my neighbor. By no means were we close friends, but we knew bits and pieces about each other. I will miss him.
Steve was a good man. For believers, he was also a soul known to God.
R.I.P.