By Laura Libert, April 2008

It seems like every article I regale you with either excess revelry or unbreakable camaraderie experienced between my coworkers and I. I wonder if some readers suspect elaboration. 

Well, it is true that we annoy each other a healthy amount, yet I cannot deny the sense of feeling like a family. Any given Saturday night it is not uncommon to approach the bar only to discover those you just left at work. Bad shift or not, we tend to end up drinking at the same place. And we are there for each other… especially during times of loss. Not too long ago we lost a dear friend, his name was Randy Padgham. He was born June 23, 1963, and died Jan. 19, 2008. 

 Our regular guests loved Randy. No one server could count on as many personal requests as he had. He was happy with his one section in the restaurant and rarely wavered from it. He never wanted big tables, dismissing them for being too impersonal. Randy liked to get to know his tables, perhaps that’s why people kept coming back to him.

Randy was a scholar at heart, evident in his master’s degree in creative writing. He was a poet and quite possibly the most well-read man man I have ever met. He loved long Sunday walks with a book in hand. He loved his daughter, Ally. The kind of person everyone needs in their life, you could come to Randy with any obscure literary to pop culture question and he would give you a sufficient answer with a bit of background information. Naturally, Randy was a popular go-to guy for answers to impossible crossword questions. One of our servers was vexed with the following clue: the first speaker in Macbeth. After a minute of brow-furrowed thought, Randy casually replied that it was the first witch. Of course…

Shortly after his passing I approach those who knew him best for touching personal anecdotes. H. Carl giggled and told about spider hunting with Randy at 3 a.m. I laughed to myself when I pictured the two, cross-eyed drunk and determined, battling a gigantic, vicious and swift arachnid. No way can you go to bed with that thing roaming around. To me, Randy was someone I could talk to about my fondness for good stories, and eventually my new found love for “Buffy the Vampire Slayer.” His literary eye critiqued every one of my articles, and he was always fair. When I first began the column, he sat me down upon the publication of my third installment and said…

“Laura, your first article was gold, the second silver, this one bronze.”

I replied with a guilty chuckle, claiming that unfortunately I wrote it in one day because it was already late. He smirked, and with that characteristic twinkle in his eye he gave me some anecdotal advice:

“I did that once. I wrote a poem in one day for a class, and admitted my blunder prior to reciting. As soon as I finished, my instructor turned to me and said, ‘I could tell…’”

I lost one of my most important critics, and someone who truly enjoyed reading what I wrote. To anyone that’s written for more than just themselves, that means a whole lot. In the wake of his death, I feel a hovering pressure to give him some sort of proper ‘eulogy.’ I’m trying so hard to write something I think he would have liked is he were still alive, but I still feel I am falling short of the memory he deserves. At times like these you want to remind yourself that death is a part of life. But then your heart tugs at you, and you find yourself tearfully wishing so hard that it wasn’t…

The night after Randy died, my boyfriend and I awoke to a dreary, unreal morning. He rolled over to tell me his strange yet pleasant dream from the night before: The whole crew was at a part. He was in the kitchen grabbing some grub, when Randy walked in to get his share. Rob noticed, startled. “Randy’s here… is that weird?” he asked. Randy turned and smiled, the wave in his hair bobbing with the movement. “Oh you know I’ll still be at these things, ” he said. No matter how cliche, I guess it is true that the ones we love will always say with us. So Randy, here’s to you, thank you for all you’ve given us, and all the wonderful wisdom and memories you left behind.