Skip to main content

Phil.

I got word from Waldo last night that Phil had passed away. And it really kinda shook me. Well, shook, but more saddened. I mean...

Phil. Buddha Phil. Phil Gair. There's a whole bunch of us, kids who hung out (and grew up) downtown, for whom Phil was just... He was a constant reassuring presence. Always there, always would be. Those big iron and wood Mall benches were there for him, weren't they? He was an original Mallfellow, there long before any of us even coined the term. His thick glasses and suspenders and snap-down cap and his child-like smile and his turns of phrase that didn't usually make sense, but really didn't need to. Talking with Phil didn't fall under rules that you'd apply to conversations with anyone else.

He said something to me once, I wish I could remember exactly... About how we had our own rainbows and didn't need to worry. From anyone else, it would've been laughable. But from him, there was a sincerity that made it real.

He also had a surprising degree of hidden talent. How many people who came in contact with him knew he was a world-class blues musician, I wonder? He was far too shy to play in public, but I was lucky enough to see him with a guitar in his hands one time... And he played "Sittin' On Top Of The World" like he was born to it. In fact, he didn't perform it so much as inhabit it, make it his own. He said something about having been in a band, way back when, to some degree of success. Opening for the MC5 at a festival somewhere in the late 60s, in front of many thousands of people. I'd love to find out when, and what his band was called...

* * * * *

When I lived Downtown, I'd see him every day. Two or three times, usually. At Chaps, over in front of the Paramount, sitting on a bench by Central Fidelity. Stop and talk, and he'd often be dispensing words of zen. Or sometimes giggling hysterically about something that he couldn't stop long enough to explain.

One time he was having a fit of laughter. High-pitched and falling in on itself... But he managed to pause for a second. Just long enough to lean over and whisper conspiratorially: "Hey Pat. Those kids over there? They got me HIGH." And then he was back into the whirlwind of giggling.

It was the same once I moved, and I'd be back to visit. Walk down the Mall, there's Phil. If it was raining, he'd be in a yellow poncho, but he'd still be there. And I'd stop, say hello. I'd get a quiet response at first. And then once he said my name, he'd begin to warm, and begin getting more comfortable. Even sometimes reaching out to shake my hand, with the world's gentlest handshake. Understand, NOT the 'dead fish' shake that I'm so loath to receive from anyone. Not at all. There was energy when Phil shook your hand, you knew there was someone on the other end. It was just... Gentle. Barely any grip, but a true commitment, I guess. I dunno.

I'd say it was nice to see him. He'd ask if I was gonna come back anytime soon, and I'd say I wasn't sure... But that I was confident in leaving him in charge of the Mall while I was gone. I'd thank him for being there, and he'd say that it was no problem.

It never really changed, even once I was just visiting from time to time. I'd still see Phil, still stop to talk.

Still, he did have his struggles. Some days, I'd walk by and he'd be somber. He'd be wrestling with an existential dilemma, and looking for reassurance: "Hey, Pat... Sometimes I just don't think the world is okay... Is it okay? Do you really think it's good?" And I'd do my best to lighten his spirits. It didn't always work completely... Sometimes he'd just decide that it needed more thought, say he wasn't really sure, go on looking concerned. But other times, it seemed to get through. Then, his eyes would go BIG behind his coke-bottle glasses, and he'd get a little grin. "You think so? You think it's alright?" Well, yeah Phil. I think it's alright. I'm here. I like it. "Oh. Good. 'Cause I think you'd tell me the truth about what you think. You wouldn't lie to me."

No, Phil. I wouldn't lie to you. I'm gonna miss you, though. The world will be a bit less subtle without you around.

Thanks for keeping an eye on The Mall for me. You did a great job. It looks wonderful.


-PAR

Comments

Anonymous said…
Phil was the Mayor of the Downtown Mall. He was one of the people that you saw everyday, and took for granted that they had always been there and always would be there. Phil was a watcher, observer and philosopher of the sort that Charlottesville seems to be blessed with. He always had a smille, a quip and an existential observation or question. Phil dispensed with "how are you" and "how about the weather" type questions, and went straight to the heart of the matter with "what is the meaning of life"?. Time permitting, we'd scratch the surface of that topic, never quite managing to resolve it satisfactorily, always defering resolution until another day. Often our exchanges became a short hand surreal/zen/nonsense code, finely honed over 15 years. A type of secret society password greeting that only Phil and I knew. Repeating these phrases became a reassuring practiced daily routine. A typical conversation, Phil holding court in front of Chaps, me passing on an errand. Phil shouts: "What's that mean?" (translation: alliterative transposition of "what's happening?") Me, responding: "Did you get your Phil today"? (catchall "how are you today") Phil: "How is it in the suburbs"? (meaning - "you've been traveling outside of charlottesville"?. I had been in Miami for four years...) Me: "Charlottesville is better". Phil: Hahahahahaha!!!!

I'll miss you Phil.

Popular posts from this blog

Farewell, Matthew S. Farrell

Matthew Farrell. Self-created raconteur, impresario, dandy, sponsor of the arts, cheerleader of creativity, perpetual inspiration. Our dear ice cream server Grace once jokingly referred to him as “the winner, and only contestant, of Charlottesville’s Oscar Wilde Lookalike Contest”, and y’know, she was pretty spot-on. Matt (I was told at various times to call him Matt, Matthew, or “just Farrell”, so to this day, I call him all those things) had his own style that was clearly modeled on his platonic ideal of a perfect gentleman. And this gentleman dressed like a Fitzgerald character, talked like a continental aristocrat who summered in some undefined New England coastal village, and walked like Groucho Marx. He smoked unfiltereds, often two at once, just for kicks, which he would hold when gesticulating excitedly as he greeted dear friends or total strangers. Pretentious? Yeah, a bit. Sincere? Always. Distinctive? Absolutely. At some point, I think I recall him saying someth

DJing, Charlottesville VA, Wednesday January 6th 2010!

If you are around in central Virginia tomorrow, you should come check this out. ...And if you're not, you should still look at the lovely event poster that my buddy James K. Ford and I made. The best imaginary vintage paperback cover never made, methinks. Very "Ace Double", in color scheme and layout. Anyhow, DJ gig. In the hometown. With my buddy James (AKA DJ Hummingbird Feeder) and me. We'll start around 9/9:30/10pm and go 'til last call. It will rock, and funk, and do other genretastic verbjectives... And it would be great to see you.

On David (DC, Dave) Berman.

David Berman has left the stage, made his exit, delivered his final observations on the state of existence.   I feel like it’s dumb to be tearing up at the thought of a Berman-less world, so I guess I’m dumb, and I guess I don’t really mind. I can't claim I knew him very well, but I thought of him as a friend. You know, the sort of friendships that form when you're both part of an amorphous social circle of weirdos in a small town at a certain point in time? Like that. Actually, exactly that. Everyone ends up at the same places, and it’s all a sea of get-togethers where everyone ends up in the kitchen, and a tiny club and a sushi bar and a Thai restaurant and a coffee shop and a bunch of patios in the summertime. You see different combinations of the same people, and there’s always beer and whiskey, and every wall is decked out with Steve Keene paintings, no matter which house or shop or cafĂ© you’re sitting in. Now, a couple decades removed, defining specifics is onerous, and