The last thing I said to Doug Bastianelli was blasphemous.
That was okay by Doug. We’d been friends for six years, more than half my time in Chicago. Almost all of my time in Chicago. When there’s Chicago, there’s Doug. I was comfortable being blasphemous around him. He still labeled himself as Catholic. “Lapsed,” sometimes, but all the better to appreciate my blasphemy.
Doug was not a saint. He was petty, and he was often grumpy, and he was sometimes annoying, and he had a penchant for — just as the day was getting good — drinking so much that the rest of us had to stop and take care of him. I talked with our mutual friend Jenny last night, and she talked about his love for life and his constant goodness, and while I agreed at the time, that wasn’t all of Doug. He was human. That made him better than a saint.
Still, Doug was better than me. For all the days I just wanted to hunch in self-pity at the end of the Dark Horse bar, he would walk in — huge grin splitting his goatee — envelop me in a bear hug and forcibly make me laugh. For all the times I would whine about some girl being too good for me, he would tell me, “You are a handsome, amazing man.” Then he’d cast an eye toward my wardrobe and tell me what might make me more handsome. I’d have gotten sick of it after the second time, snapped at the person annoying me, changed the subject. He was too patient for that. Too giving.
I used Doug a lot. A lot of times, I needed that boost to my self-esteem. Sometimes, I just didn’t want to drink alone. It was rare when he wouldn’t make time for me.
There’s so much more to say. All morning, I’ve been thinking about my Chicago stories and realizing almost all of them involve Doug. Every Pride parade. Most days at the Dark Horse. Football at the Union. Wine nights. Cubs games. Thanksgivings for those of us stuck in Chicago without family. The time he used unwitting me as man-bait, the time he introduced me to one of life’s great loves, the time he made me an amazing going-away brunch.
I missed him when I left Chicago, and I hear he missed me, but man, was I wrapped up in my new life. See where this is going? He called a lot. I would shoot back a quick text. I finally wised up, and we made plans to have Thanksgiving at my parents’ place. He was giddy. Literally clapping while we talked.
Doug passed the night of Sept. 18. He wasn’t ill; he certainly wasn’t frail. He just… passed on.
Earlier Saturday, he texted to say he and a mutual friend were going to the Dark Horse. What did I want him to drink in my honor?
I called back, for once, but got his voicemail. I told him the name of my regular beer. “But,” I said, “for each glass, you have to say, ‘Take and drink; do this in remembrance of me.’” A Communion joke. I never heard back, but I bet he did it, and I bet he laughed.
Do you know the cause of death?
Not an official one, no. We are guessing, based on his family’s charity of choice, that it might have been a heart attack. Doug was in great health, though.