All About Miguel

Even though he thought he was a good man, he was a highly flawed man.

Miguel looked Italian.  Not American, Italian!  Of some consequence, you need to know he did spend time in Bologna in his college years.  Miguel spoke often about his experience, about his pensione and the landlady who consistently tried to trick this college junior out of his belongings. But only once. Miguel was more than quick.

For years he spoke of nothing but Italian.  Language, people, country.   He talked about it like a man who would return.  But he didn't.  That is how I knew him.  More talking.  Even the night we met.

Sitting at the painted 1940 beige dining room table, Miguel lectured for three hours. No one had a chance to speak.  From the first meeting it was all about him.  He wasn't the kind of young man then ever to take advantage of another.  You just had to know he came first.  And he was always available with gifts. He came first.

Wavy, dark brown hair, almost black, that curled when it got longer than a boyish cut. Short in stature by today's standards, Miguel was fanatic about working out. Twenty plus hours a week. Even as a family man he was highly scheduled.  Routinized.  His hours were documented.

Not much changed in the years to follow other than his boyish looks surrendered to an almost bowl cut hair style.  His Friar Tuck crown accentuated it.  He even mixed three shampoos to get the right texture hoping to give the illusion of more crownal coverage. 

The fatal flaw was the arrogance, the ego though not in the way one might image.  The preoccupied ego, the kind of feeling he had that he was never quite good enough.  Always having to be better.  Forgetting others along the way.  He mouthed the words at the appropriate time. Perhaps the defining moment was that he simply just didn't care about anyone else. 

He always came first.