Bob and I would spend Christmas together. I don’t mean just in the seven years we were married, or the ten years when we were a couple before that. Bob and I would spend Christmas together across the street from here at Baker Hall. It was always just he and I who would finagle a way to get away from our families and get permission to come back to school early. Along with his signature biker jacket and jump boots, Bob wore a personality of his own design. It wasn’t an act so much as an affect and he wore it all his life. At that time it was SIM Bob. When my Dad first met him he told me later, “Trish, I know how carefully you choose your friends, so I’ve got to assume there’s something worthwhile about that guy, but frankly, I don’t see it.” It would be years before he would see it, but on Christmas night in Bob’s room at the dorm when it was just us talking he would drop his guard and show his gooey, sensitive center. We were just friends then, but I was proud to be one of Bob’s confidants.
Bob was serially monomaniacal. What I mean by that is he would become absolutely obsessed with a certain thing for a certain period of time. After leaving MassArt he was obsessed with replacing his lost drum kit. He purchased a full Roland electronic drum kit before he purchased a bed, yes sleeping on a blanket on the floor in a virtually empty room with a very expensive drum kit. It was charming. Other things Bob would become obsessed with over the years — 3D animation, particularly in terms of the rendering of light as opposed to objects, the computer game Diablo, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, candle pin bowling, darts, Microsoft Excel for the express purpose of breaking down his employers’ business model to prove his worth and increase efficiency, the Facebook game Metropolis (I believe he was for some time one of the top five players worldwide), and writing programs to write other programs. Seasonally, not football per se, but The New England Patriots specifically. Cooking was a frequent obsession which generally worked in my favor, unless he was trying to perfect something specific. The fabulous mushrooms he made this past Thanksgiving and encored at Christmas were the end result of weeks of trials. I finally had to sadly tell him, Baby I can’t tell what they taste like anymore, they just taste like mushrooms all the time mushrooms.
Our Friday nights were sacrosanct and I will miss them terribly. Sometimes when we were both busy it might be the only time we would see each other in the whole week. Ships in the night we often were, but we never lost track of each other. I always knew I could find him at the Gate in the late afternoon, if nothing else, and that on Friday we would go out to dinner somewhere, have good food and great conversation, and go home and snuggle in front of a movie, not always as good as the food. Bob liked some bad movies, but I only remember the good ones.
Bob was patient but did not suffer fools. He was easy to be with but hard to know. He was kind but willing to dig in deep to make a point. He was unlike anyone I have ever known. It has always been hard for me to describe what I love about him. What I would tell people is that I love Bob like breathing. The irony of that is not lost on any of us, but that really is it. I love him like breathing. Most of the time you don’t even notice you’re doing it. It’s just a fact going on in the background. But sometimes, you yawn, or you sigh, or you sneeze and all of a sudden breathing is the only thing you’re doing. It’s the most important thing in the world. Breathing is especially lovely if you smell something nice, or something stinky, which Bob’s Dad would especially appreciate. Bob and I were so much a part of each other’s lives that sometimes we fell into the background but like the suddenness of a sneeze, or the comfort of a yawn, or the beauty of lilacs, love would come into focus and be something truly wonderful. So Bob, I love you like breathing. And I always will.
Bob was serially monomaniacal. What I mean by that is he would become absolutely obsessed with a certain thing for a certain period of time. After leaving MassArt he was obsessed with replacing his lost drum kit. He purchased a full Roland electronic drum kit before he purchased a bed, yes sleeping on a blanket on the floor in a virtually empty room with a very expensive drum kit. It was charming. Other things Bob would become obsessed with over the years — 3D animation, particularly in terms of the rendering of light as opposed to objects, the computer game Diablo, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, candle pin bowling, darts, Microsoft Excel for the express purpose of breaking down his employers’ business model to prove his worth and increase efficiency, the Facebook game Metropolis (I believe he was for some time one of the top five players worldwide), and writing programs to write other programs. Seasonally, not football per se, but The New England Patriots specifically. Cooking was a frequent obsession which generally worked in my favor, unless he was trying to perfect something specific. The fabulous mushrooms he made this past Thanksgiving and encored at Christmas were the end result of weeks of trials. I finally had to sadly tell him, Baby I can’t tell what they taste like anymore, they just taste like mushrooms all the time mushrooms.
Our Friday nights were sacrosanct and I will miss them terribly. Sometimes when we were both busy it might be the only time we would see each other in the whole week. Ships in the night we often were, but we never lost track of each other. I always knew I could find him at the Gate in the late afternoon, if nothing else, and that on Friday we would go out to dinner somewhere, have good food and great conversation, and go home and snuggle in front of a movie, not always as good as the food. Bob liked some bad movies, but I only remember the good ones.
Bob was patient but did not suffer fools. He was easy to be with but hard to know. He was kind but willing to dig in deep to make a point. He was unlike anyone I have ever known. It has always been hard for me to describe what I love about him. What I would tell people is that I love Bob like breathing. The irony of that is not lost on any of us, but that really is it. I love him like breathing. Most of the time you don’t even notice you’re doing it. It’s just a fact going on in the background. But sometimes, you yawn, or you sigh, or you sneeze and all of a sudden breathing is the only thing you’re doing. It’s the most important thing in the world. Breathing is especially lovely if you smell something nice, or something stinky, which Bob’s Dad would especially appreciate. Bob and I were so much a part of each other’s lives that sometimes we fell into the background but like the suddenness of a sneeze, or the comfort of a yawn, or the beauty of lilacs, love would come into focus and be something truly wonderful. So Bob, I love you like breathing. And I always will.