In one way or another, we’re all snobbish. My snobbery revolves around intelligence.
Of all my clients, the one I admire most in that category is Garry.
Garry understands concepts in a flash. He has an unerring instinct in assessing people. All this has enticed him to be a self-employed……..plumber. Even though he doesn’t have to, the man works seven days a week. He never seems to have more than five minutes to spare for me. In that time, he brings me smoked meat he has seasoned. In return, I exchange the most delicious Sumo Mandarins with him.
Last week, we met in a car park in front of my bank. It was the only time he had for me between jobs.
With absolutely no change in his manner, Garry discloses he has cancer of the bladder. He’ll be having chemo and radiation so he won’t be able to meet me for a while.
“Garry, I’m so sorry,” I blurt.
It was the first thing that came to mind.
Matter-of-factly, he shrugs off my sympathy.
“I’ve always told you we all have a card with a number on it,” he says. “Whether we die of one cause or another, or live shorter or longer.”
For the first time in years, he casts away his time restrictions. We talk for ages about what legacy we leave behind and of our own sense of success.
Garry tells me, “My success will be measured by how many attend my funeral. What’s yours?”
Without thinking, I reply. “Not wanting to be in anyone else’s shoes but my own.”
I don’t know what I’ll miss more about our time together, his pastrami or his insights.
