Joe Schmo

Within an hour of meeting Joe Franciosi, he removed his glass eye and handed it to me. Not metaphorically. One minute we were talking shop and the next there was an eyeball sitting in his palm like he'd just won it at a carnival.

That was Joe.

Most people spend years deciding how much of themselves to reveal. Joe took the express lane. We met during the Comedy World years, back when everyone seemed convinced they were about to reinvent radio. The network's logo featured a bomb with the fuse lit, which should have been our first clue.

Joe arrived as a board operator but quickly became one of those rare people who transcended job titles. He was endlessly curious, frighteningly smart, and approached life with the enthusiasm of a Labrador retriever that had just discovered tennis balls. One afternoon he pitched me a wrestling show called Wrestling 101.

Professional wrestling. On radio.I remember thinking it was either a terrible idea or a brilliant one. With Joe, those were often the same thing.

The show was a hit. Of course it was. When Comedy World eventually lived up to its logo and exploded, Joe remained. Some work friends disappear when the paychecks stop. Joe wasn't one of them. 

When Billy died in 2002, Joe showed up. He showed up for the wake. He showed up for the funeral.Then he showed up after everyone else had stopped showing up.

Grief attracts casseroles and sympathy cards during the first few weeks. The real loneliness comes later, when the rest of the world returns to normal and you don’t. 

Joe understood that instinctively. I cried in front of him more times than I can count. He never looked uncomfortable. Never changed the subject. Never tried to solve anything. He'd just listen. Then he'd wrap me in one of those giant bear hugs that somehow managed to be both awkward and exactly right.

Years passed. Facebook replaced phone calls. The friendship survived.

The last time I saw him, we met for burgers across from my office. He brought his oldest son along. The kid looked like he'd been genetically engineered in a laboratory to become a professional wrestler. Joe couldn't have looked prouder if he'd personally assembled him.

That's the image that keeps returning. Not the glass eye. Not Wrestling 101. Not even the hugs.

Joe sitting across from me in a burger joint, looking at his son with the unmistakable expression of a man who knew exactly what mattered. 

Then Angel called one day. Heart attack. Took Joe out just like that. The words still refuse to fit together.

I don't know how old he was. Part of me is afraid to find out. Billy was thirty-nine when his heart stopped. Some numbers become haunted after that.

What I do know is that somewhere tonight there is a wife missing her husband and two boys missing their father. And there are a lot of us missing our friend.

Joe left behind plenty of stories.The glass eye alone could probably fill a chapter. But when I think of him now, I don't think about the eyeball. I think about the guy who kept showing up. And that proud dad smile when he looked over to his son at the burger joint.

The look of a man who knew exactly what mattered.

I love you, Schmo. I always will.