“He was a legend,”  John pulled me under his arm and pointed to a mountain of a man, a mountain man type of man sporting salt and pepper colored facial hair and more than a few extra inches around his waist.  “He started this bar 30 years ago.  He brought in bottled imports. No one did that back then,” John went on. “He’s a legend.”

Everyone at the gathering was a legend — in the eyes of everyone else there. And there were stories to tell!

Around twenty-five characters gathered at Quenchers to see a good friend who, fighting the effects of glioblastoma and the prescribed treatments, had to work hard to organize his memories of the world they shared together. They also came to breathe life into their own memories.

To them, Quenchers was, like in the long-running TV show Cheers, a place where everyone knew your name.  As part-time bartenders, or like Norm and postman Cliff Clavin, full-time bar stool sitters, they spent most Thursday evenings together drinking and obsessing over their fantasy baseball league. And this was thirty years ago, back when stats weren’t managed automatically on laptops or Smartphones.

I wasn’t part of this crowd, but it was so easy talking to everyone now.  I just had to explain the nexus of connections and I was in. I relayed how I came with John who bartended with Steve back in 1980-something. Then somebody would invariably tell me about a secret crush they had on John or about how they went on a ridiculously long motorcycle adventure with someone else I knew. Suddenly, it was as if we were related.

My father used to call this Jewish Geography, how if you talk to people with the intention of finding out what you have in common, you invariably find out you do have something or someone in common. If it’s not already a small world, a healthy dose of small talk renders it one.

I had never met Steve before this week, except on the phone and through his blog, My Big Fat Greek Cancer.  I knew he loved Beat Generation writers, his wife and daughter – and, oh yes, the Cubs.  And we all know how frustrating that love affair can be.

Oddly, I felt very close to him during this reunion.  Albeit for our own reasons, we were both putting our whole hearts and minds into making sense of how people were connected.

At one point, he came up to me and apologized that he couldn’t speak to me more personally at such a gathering. It was too crowded. The bar was too noisy. There were too many distractions. Moments later, he excused himself because he spotted three other people he wanted to swap stories with. It was a not a time for deep conversations but for deep recognition of belonging.

The afternoon unfolded as it unfolded.  I was glad to be a part of it.

A fine bottle of Monkey Shoulders (Scotch) was divvied up in plastic cups for a ceremonial toast.  (I think this is how a group hug is performed at Quenchers.) Promises to get together, aside from such occasions, were exchanged. People showed off pics of their children on their cell phones.

I think Steve genuinely was touched by the experience.  Of course, I went on a philosophical jag.

The present moment belongs to no one. Memories of our lives, the facts and fictions we’ve adopted, belong to everyone we touch.  Memories can be deeply personal, but the truth of a human life is too important to leave in the hands of one person.

We all are here to remember for each other.  Only together, can we get close to the truth of our stories – and that’s no small thing.