In Memoriam

It's hard to explain how much a part of the family someone like a security guard can become when you live in a large city. The first time I walked into the jaw-dropping Benjamin Franklin House at 9th and Chestnut in Philadelphia, I was greeted by Ed who sat behind the rather intimidating marble front desk. Later, when we moved in, he drew maps to restaurants, advised us about groceries, and told me the streets I needed to avoid. Every day after the school, the kids would run and hug him enthusiastically, much to the chagrin of the shoe-tapping people waiting to get their mail. He always took his time, listened to Camille's and Austin's stories, and treated them with respect.

The first time Camille ran into him with abandon, it took him aback.

"I can't remember the last time anybody hugged me," he said. To be sure, he didn't have the most welcoming demeanor. Tattooed hands, a chain-linked keychain thick enough it could've held up a porch swing, and a pretty imposing physique.

It became a ritual. Even though he had very little money, he'd give the kids random gifts, like an American flag necklace or an extra thick rubber band -- presents they relished like it was Christmas. I saw him every day, several times -- when I got my mail, when I left the apartment, when I locked myself out of the apartment, when I made late night ice cream runs.

In fact, he'd go with me to get the ice cream, thinking that the two blocks to the local Wa-Wa was too dangerous for me to go it alone. (That, and he liked ice cream.) The point is, he always offered a helping hand -- with groceries, packages, and moral support.

When the elevator abruptly stopped between floors -- trapping Austin and me for what seemed like a month -- I picked up the black phone so he could calmly talk me out of my near hysteria. He also promptly sent our wonderful maintenance guys who let Austin and I jump down to them.

He represented -- essentially -- Philly to me, with his no-nonsense liberalism, his anti-religious tendencies, and his dismissiveness of all things Republican. For reasons unbeknownst to me, we got along well even though I'm a part of the vast Right Wing Conspiracy.

The most memorable Ed moment came when I took the kids to New Jersey in a cab, before realizing I left my purse in my apartment. By the time I got back to Philadelphia, I owed the cabbie almost a hundred dollars. And when I finally got my purse, I had no cash. Ed promptly ended my chaotic night by slipping the cabbie the money and helping the kids across the street.

We'd talk forever about things going on in Camille's school and the latest happenings on the playground. But when I asked him about his life, he'd tell me long, detailed synopses of the most recent Law & Order. In other words, he was lonely.

I guess we were too. None of us were totally comfortable in Philly. When the children had their first urban birthday party, the only person they both wanted to be there was Mr. Ed. Tonight, one of my former maintenance guys e-mailed me. Apparently, Mr. Ed failed to come into work. When they went to his apartment and checked on him, he was dead.

Thankfully, I got to talk to him a few months ago, when he crossed my mind and I remembered his phone number was still programmed into my cell phone. We talked like no time had passed, and I remembered how special it is to find someone who's willing to offer you a hand. It just makes life (and especially urban dwelling) so much more bearable -- driving away the loneliness just a little bit at a time.

But now I feel it again.