The Playboy

It is Friday. The sun is shining and sends us hope that spring is coming soon. The radio is on, the cat is asleep in the basket under the table. I notice that the text in the book I am reading disappears as my thoughts begin to wander. I philosophise about everything from whether life should be enjoyed in length or breadth, to the people around me and those who are no longer here. For the cat under the table, it is quite obvious that life should be enjoyed in breadth. She gives me clear and loud messages when she feels the need for cuddling, whether I should pour new water, give her more food and when it is time for some activity.

The sun that shines, the warmth that it gives, the desire to go out and meet people makes me think of another who enjoyed the breadth of life. He was a motorcyclist, fighter pilot, restaurant king, playboy and a good friend. On days like this, I miss being able to call him, arrange a meeting over a beer and talk nonsense for hours. It was always both fun and educational to have a beer with him. He always had new stories, old stories with a new twist and different old stories that melted into one big one. And he told stories from his life just as well when his life went downhill as he did from his glory days. One of the stories I remember happened the year after he had lost everything in a bankruptcy. He had traveled to New York to hang out with his regular crew of celebrities and movie stars. The difference this year was that he was broke. The year before he stayed at the Waldorf Astoria. This year, he shared a room at the YMCA with an Australian he did not know. The roommate looked at him a little strange as he pulled a tuxedo out of his suitcase, put it on and looked like a million dollars. Now he was standing on the street looking up at the white hotel in art deco style. The afternoon sun shone down 49TH st. and in the light of the sunset it looked as if the hotel was made of marble. Even where others would give up, he always felt that the sun was shining on him as he stood in his tuxedo in front of the main entrance on Park Avenue. But he was not going to enter the main entrance. It would look like he did not stay at the hotel. The entrance to the garage was around the corner on 50TH st. He waited until a car drove out and walked in before the gate closed. He walked quickly and confidently up to the doorman by the elevator. The doorman’s face lit up when he recognised him; so nice to see you again! Thank you for staying with us! Do you still drive that Lincoln Continental with suicide doors! The doorman received $50 in tips. This was the last of his money.

He stepped out of the elevator as if coming down from the suites up in the tower. He took a few steps out of the elevator, stopped, took a cigarette out of the silver case and knocked it against the lid. He looked discreetly around as he lit the cigarette and strolled casually towards an old acquaintance. What´s your poison tonight Jack! Jack frowned and looked at him over the Wayfarer glasses and smiled as only Jack could. Arve! There´s my man! We’re gonna have fun tonight! All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy! Many stories were written over the next few days in New York nightclubs.

Arve is no longer amongst us so it’s too late to call him for a beer and new stories now. But he lived life to the broadest and fullest, and all the stories about him live on and are still told. He’s probably sitting somewhere with a cold beer in the sunshine and smiling at the life he lived! I will raise my glass for him today!