My friend Burton

     My dear friend Burt died this month.  He was a poet, philosopher, comedian, businessman, humanitarian.  We were buddies growing  up.  He kept me laughing through elementary and high school and beyond.

     In high school we both took a temporary job selling World Book Encyclopedias.  He wound up selling one set, onlybecause he placed a brochure in the window of his father's store.  I didn't sell any.  That doesn't matter here.  Our instructor was a very proper, well dressed lady who would send us to the poorest neighborhoods in Newark, New Jersey, where parents couldn't afford to feed their children properly, let alone buy encyclopedias.  "Hold up your sample volume so the customer can see a picture, pointing discretely to the photo with your little finger," she advised.   Burton was a large, muscular guy with extraordinarily large hands.  Holding his book so that only I could see, he covered the entire page with his huge paw. "Like this?"  he whispered to me, innocently.  I could not contain my guffaws, much to the disapproval of the instructor.

     More recently we visited the Whitney Museum of rt in New York City, with our wives.  Neither Burt nor I were terribly interested in the paintings or sculpture.  A carved wooden bench sat near one of the walls.  It was obviously an antique and not meant to be sat upon.  Burt indicated to me alone that
was going to sit on the fragile bench without moving.  "I will make believe I am a statue and see if people are fooled. "  Disregarding the guard at the door, he did just that.  His wife, an artist herself, was not amused.

     We attended a reunion of our class from the Bronx High School, of Science.  I touched bases with a few old friends but generally found many people stuffy and full of themselves.  Admittedly, this was a high achieving group.  Our high school has produced eight Nobel prize winners in physics.  The M.C. for the meeting listed the number of physicians, scientists, and academicians from our class.  Burton, seated next to me, announced to me and my wife, "They haven't gotten to my category yet...beggar."

     If there is an afterlife awaiting us, somewhere is a remote corner Burton is seated at a table, regaling others with funny stories.  I hope he is saving a place for me by his side.