Clowns and Tragedy

I found out that another former co-worker of mine (from Starbucks, this time), has passed away unexpectedly. He was most recently the manager of the Starbucks near my practice, so I saw him on a semi-regular basis. The day before I found out, I went in that Starbucks for a quick early-morning cuppa, and I do remember thinking it was weird that he wasn't there. But I figured that maybe he was just on vacation.

I recall working one night with Mark at the Wrigleyville store. Mark was one of those upbeat people, sometimes annoyingly so, but I knew by then that a lot of strife lay beneath that persona. Opera was playing on our sound system. I think I commented on one of the arias, bragging about my season tickets to the Lyric, wanting to sound so sophisticated & worldly, so much more so then the milk-stained green apron I was donning would imply. Then I thought out loud that another piece sounded like it was from La Traviata.

"Oh, no," Mark said, "This is I Pagliacci. The tragic clown." Then he talked about the opera itself, the particular production, the tenor, the history of the piece and other pieces by the composer. I was impressed, and a little embarrassed at just how little I knew, and by my presumption that he would not.

I saw I Pagliacci this past spring. It was fantastic, and I wish I had taken a minute to talk with Mark about it. It would have been a lively discussion; I can hear, in my head, his booming voice and boisterous laugh.

The tragic clown. Ironic, Mark, given the circumstances of your passing, (too sorrowful for me to state here)that I will now always associate that image with you.

-C.