Dead Colleagues
I have two of them now. That I know of, anyway. Close ones. Ones whose houses I’ve spent time in, whose families I’ve met.
One was my age. I don’t think about him some days, and then when I realize I haven’t thought about him, I get sad. He was my Facebook friend. He was my real life friend. He was my wine bar buddy. He was one of my best friend’s best friends. He was taken too soon, which I am obligated to say, because he was born like 34 days after I was, and if I had died three years ago, I would have been taken too soon, and if I died tomorrow, I would be taken too soon, and so on.
And yet… David Burnham, at 91, was taken too soon, it seems. I have their names next to each other now in Chrome tabs next to this one and it’s almost unbearable.
A week ago, I got the phone call I had long been dreading from another colleague of ours. Every time he called me, I told him, I feared it would be the awful news: “The Old Phart died.” (This bastardized nickname is something of a l33t speak inside joke that I barely understand, let alone remember.) I mean, we had all sent him well wishes for his 90th birthday late last January. An old fart, he certainly was. And a true Aquarian individualist, which I’m sure he would hate me saying. I mean, we knew it was going to happen eventually. It’s like looking at my cat Zelda, also an Aquarius, who will be 17 in February. Eventually it just seems like borrowed time. Did you pee outside the litter box? Great, the vet’s probably going to recommend the Big Sleep.
But he choked at the dinner table. Like… fuck. Really? It’s like when you get to be a certain age, anything can take you down. Then again, choking can take you down no matter what your age, health, etc. But in any case, it seems markedly unfair. An accident. Something not fated.
Or, if it was, then fate itself is pretty fucking unfair.
Anyway, you can read the obituary for yourself. I don’t have to tell you that he was the reporter that broke the Serpico story. Oh wait, I just did. The obit will tell you all about that and the other great things he did. It should start to give you a sense that this was pretty much the smartest and fairest and most intellectually curious man alive.
I just want to tell you about the guy, the human, that I shared office space with. I worked for a tiny nonprofit that he was on the Advisory Board for. He had his own office right across the hall from mine in an office space in Dupont Circle that couldn’t have been larger than, say, a really nice penthouse apartment. I, and everyone else who ever worked at this place, have so many stories about that office, mostly about the boss, whose chief weaknesses included being harder on women than he was on men “because [he’s] a feminist,” as he explained, using his own first name as his password to his computer and his email, and other delights, such as eating a slice of chocolate cake I had put on a plate for myself while I turned around to grab a fork. These snippets don’t tell you anything about Burnham, as I called him (these were the days before Bo), but they set the stage for what he witnessed us all going through. He had seen so much more, so much worse. He knew life was too short for such bullshit, and he would stand up to this guy. So that was pretty cool. We had several Advisory Board members who were active in the organization, though we had even more who were just big names for recognition, to win respect and therefore money. Somehow, he was both, especially since he got to see the inner workings of it all.
Even more importantly, he bought me coffee.
I wasn’t even a huge coffee drinker in those days. I first worked there from age 21 to nearly 23, and then was convinced to come back for a second taste at 25 after they were “unable to replace [me]” (duh) and had hired an organizational management consultant and were promising to make changes, which, when the consultant presented said changes to the Board of Directors, the boss, who was also the President of the Board, said “I veto this whole plan.” Shitty boss or not, TWO CUPS OF STARBUCKS COFFEE A DAY will certainly perk one up. He would go in the morning and again in the afternoon, and would always offer to bring a cup back for me. I felt bad saying “yes” every time, so sometimes I pretended that I didn’t need anything, but other times he was insistent, and if there’s one thing in this world that I’ll let a man force on me, it’s coffee. He quickly learned how I took my coffee at that time — insane amounts of cream, to the point that it was advisable and cost-saving for him to order me a short coffee in a tall cup, then fill the rest with half and half.
As though the coffee wasn’t enough, he had an original screenprinted MEESE IS A PIG poster. Why did he have this, you might ask? What in the living hell is this, you also might ask, if you are below a certain age. Just click the link. Whatever. I was eight years old when it all went down. My mom bought one of the t-shirts and was convinced someone went through her garbage the following week. Did I wear that t-shirt to Halloween at the White House the next year after Bushe the Firste took office? You bet. Did my nine-year-old ass have it on UNDER my costume? You also bet. (Wait, is this what the kids mean when they say “bet”?) Fifteen years later, I must have complimented the poster and told the aforementioned story, because suddenly the poster showed up IN MY OFFICE. “You can hang this up. It’s not yours, but you can hang it up.” Suspiciously similar to what my grandmother said when my grandfather, who had started playing cello the same year as me (I was eight, he was 77, wow I literally just realized my grandfather was 69 when I was born, NICE), died and left some piece of shit Kay brand yard sale cello sitting lonely in his music room. “It’s not yours, but you can play it.” Oh yeah? Guess what I’m looking at leaning against my living room wall right now, Helen? I hope they sell cartons of Silva Thins in the afterlife.
Right, we have to wrap up that forced reader interaction question now.
He had the poster because one of his daughters, who were both maybe in the 10-15 years older than me range, was DATING SOMEBODY IN FUGAZI when they were involved with making the posters as a part of Positive Force DC or whatever (I don’t know, I had to look up the details, I am not that cool). I remember our conversations actually evolved from the time I was initially there as a know-nothing 21-year-old know-it-all and a 25-year-old who, well, I mean I was probably the same minus a boyfriend swap, but at least I wasn’t going to goth clubs anymore, so he found me to be a suitable surrogate daughter to reignite some feelings he missed from his own girls having grown up too fast.
Too fast. Too soon. Sigh.
He told me I was becoming a beautiful young woman. Nobody had ever said something like that to me before. I don’t think I would have let them. It either would have been creepy, fatuous, or both. But from him, it felt right. He invited me over to his cool Tudor-style condo building in Van Ness for dinner parties. I would’ve loved to buy that place when he and his wife stopped snowbirding from Maine down to DC and simply stayed up there year-round, but it was, of course, EXPENSIVE AS FUCK. Many years later, in I believe 2017, he invited me to stop by his new place in Maine when my ex and I were up there to attend a friend’s wedding. Because my ex is my ex, we couldn’t get our shit together and our arrival time kept changing. Burnham was furious! He had no patience for us young folks and our cellular telephones and ever-evolving plans. I will never forgive myself for that one. We finally made it and we had a lovely time, or at least I had a lovely time and the brick wall I was married to looked longingly out the windows at the lobstermen or something.
We ate soup.
I was just in Maine a few months ago. I didn’t go see him because I didn’t have a car while I was there. I’m trying not to regret that. It’s not like we talked about it or anything. The last time we communicated was me emailing him for his 90th and him responding several days later. Maybe it’s best I just end with whatever he said. I don’t even remember what he said, so now we can both read it again for the first time.
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Because [name redacted] told me to...
2 messages
Kate Rears <krears@gmail.com>Tue, Jan 24, 2023 at 7:03 PM
To: David Burnham <dburnham@syr.edu>
Well, your wife told him to tell me to, or something. Wish you a happy 90th birthday, that is.
You'd better live another 6 years at least, so then you'll finally be less than twice my age.
Thanks for letting me be your unofficial youngest child, biggest pain in the ass, etc.; for buying me all those coffees back in the day; for letting me display the Meese is a Pig poster; for always inviting me to come see you; and for teaching me not only to be myself, but to be proud of it.
Much love,
-kate.
David Bright Burnham <dburnham@syr.edu>Wed, Feb 8, 2023 at 9:23 PM
To: Kate Rears <krears@gmail.com>
Dear Kate—
A delayed thanks for your warm note on my 90th. I’ll do my very best to become twice as old as you. Yes, we did have fun sparring with dear [redacted] and [redacted], and it was great to have you come to dine with us in DC—we’ll do a repeat in Maine at some point. We talk to [redacted] every week or so and he’s as crazy as ever but we love him. I understand from him that your new job is going well; very glad to hear it. With your talent you’ve gone far already and the best is yet to come.
warm regards
David
