Tom and the Cow

(Pictured: Tom. Not pictured: The cow.)

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Back in February my friend Tom, whom I had known since high school, died suddenly and unexpectedly. He was 39 years old. The senselessness of his death spurred me to write about how his death impacted me a few days after I learned of it.

Five months later (has it really been five months already?), I come home after visiting another high school friend sitting shiva with his family after his father's death. Cancer. A two-year battle. But as Jon, his youngest son and my classmate, reflected, Howard lived a long, full life of toil and joy, work and volunteering, raising three children who've all gone on to become incredible, amazing adults and parents in their own right. It's sad, true, but sad in a different way. That's what life is supposed to be. Jon's father passed beyond the veil as a grandfather able to look upon his grandchildren and know with utter certainty he was leaving the world in good hands. It was fitting, somehow, that despite their grief, my friend and his siblings still had the strength to laugh, to reminisce about the good times, and reflect on the parts of life that made for the best stories.

Five months later, and I got to thinking that blog post I wrote in February wasn't how I wanted to immortalize Tom at all. It wasn't how I wanted to remember him. Tom was larger than life, possessing of a big laugh and an even bigger heart, and he deserved a far better tribute than what I poked out with numb fingers. Therefore, this is a memory of Tom as I remember him best. It's also a remembrance that I am uniquely equipped to relate, because I was the only one there to witness it.

This is the story of Tom and the Cow.

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The high school we attended was right next door to a Wal-Mart, and in the early 90's, this particular store had a small section for arcade games. It was a common after school destination for a couple of teenagers who had some quarters burning holes in their pockets: this Wal-Mart, after all, had Street Fighter II: Champion Edition among its installed arcade attractions, along with a variety of those plastic bubble dispensers, candy machines, and skill crane games. Passive income-generating machines aimed at the under-18 crowd. Like kids, we fell for them hook, line, and sinker.

One particular after school afternoon during our sophomore year (grade 10 for international readers), Tom and I made our way through the little copse of trees that bordered our school, crossed the parking lot, and entered Wal-Mart our normally abnormal way, ducking through the half-sized door that also served as the cart return, because this was the fastest way to reach the arcade games. After a couple rounds of Street Fighter II action, where Tom so thoroughly and completely kicked my ass that I had trouble sitting still in class the next day (that's my story and I'm stickin' to it!), we walked towards the doors to head back to school, where our parents would be waiting to pick us up a little later than usual to avoid the crowd.

Today, however, Tom glanced over at the skill crane to see what prizes were on offer. I heard his booming laugh and turned to see what had him so enamored. Tom stood, pointing into the machine at something. "That," he said, in the characteristic of a teenager who didn't care who else in the world heard him, "is the dumbest thing I've ever seen."

I looked where he was pointing. What had caught Tom's attention was a stuffed cow's head. Not a stuffed cow, mind you, just the head. Technically it was a stuffed bull's head, but I can't think of it as anything but a cow, because that's what Tom called it. Despite the horns, despite the large red plastic ring piercing its nostrils, Tom pointed at it and said, "Look at that cow. Isn't that the dumbest thing you've ever seen? It's got a ring through its nose."

I had to agree, the cow did look pretty dumb, with its vacant-eyed expression, faux-leather cow hide exterior, and decorative plastic ring.

"That's the dumbest thing in the world..." Tom re-iterated after my agreement. He then uttered the most endearingly Tom-like thing I'd ever heard Tom say up to that point in my life: "...And I want it."

One thing you have to understand about Tom. He was one of the most laid-back individuals on the face of the planet. Tom was so chill you could hand him a room-temperature soda and he'd give you back a slushie a minute later. But when Tom wanted something, this deep-seated Hungarian tenacity gene inherited from his father kicked in, and there was no stopping him. He spent the next several minutes and god only knows how many dollars until finally the claw closed tightly around his prize, carted it across the playing field, and deposited it down the chute. Tom eagerly dug in his hand and emerged holding his trophy, raising it above his head and letting out a whoop which caused several of the cashiers to look over at us with what was either pity or contempt--the two are difficult to differentiate on the face of someone working retail.

As we made our way out of the building and back to school, I asked Tom what on earth he planned to do now that he had possession of the self-proclaimed dumbest thing he had ever seen.

"I don't know. Who cares?" he responded. "I have the cow, that's what matters."

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The cow soon took its triumphant place on the upper shelf of Tom's locker, where it greeted passersby with its soulful expression, or occasionally served as an impromptu football, hurled through the hallways to generate much-needed laughter during passing periods. The plastic ring didn't survive long, but the rest of the cow took quite the pummeling and kept on keeping on in its Zen-like state of cow-ness.

A few weeks later, Tom was over at my house hanging out and he saw, arranged across the back of the sofa, a small collection of stuffed bovines. "That's a fine collection of cows you have there, Mrs. Crisman," he told my mom.

"Oh, those aren't mine," she said with a laugh. "They're Mike's. He collects them."

"And you let him keep them on your sofa?" Tom seemed somehow in awe of this, like furniture was made for people to sit on, not for teenagers to display their cow collection, and yet here was this otherwise-normal adult breaking the rules. "That's so cool!" He looked at me. "Your mom's so cool!" He looked at my mom. "You're so cool, Mrs. Crisman!"

She thanked him and left us to get back to playing Mortal Kombat on the Super Nintendo, where Tom proceeded to prove just how cool my mom was by utterly destroying me across a dozen different matches waged in seven different arenas. The more Tom respected you, the harder he whipped your sorry ass in fighting games.

It was a simple fact of life.

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That Monday, back at school, Tom caught up with me at my locker before a break period and handed me the cow. "Here, man. You should have this."

I offered to pay him for it, considering how much he'd spent getting it out of the claw machine, but Tom being Tom wouldn't take a dime. He said to put it on the back of my mom's sofa, with the rest of my cows. It had outlived its usefulness to him, and he was passing it on. So I thanked him, went home that day, and did just that. Up until I moved out of the condo, the cow stayed on the back of her sofa, never failing to elicit questions about its origins from people who saw it for the first time. Mom answered them all in good humor, though I secretly think she was thankful when I packed up the cow and took it with me after I got married.

The cow became a part of the herd in 1994.

Twenty-four years later, the cow is somewhat the worse for wear. It's been through two different moves, survived being in storage, and has finally begun to reveal the ephemeral nature of the materials used in its manufacture. Its fake cowhide skin is cracked and split. The seams holding the stuffing in have popped and burst. It's no longer as flexible and football-like as it once was.

Like all of us, it has seen better days. Like all of us, it isn't as young as it used to be.

Nevertheless, looking at it now, I still remember Tom and all the time, effort, and cash he expended to make it a part of his life. I remember his generosity in making it a part of mine. Its eyes with their vacant, soulful stare, despite its rough condition and long-suffering in the face of our continued failure to accurately identify its gender, remind me that like all else in life, this too shall pass.

Tom passed it on to me, but as far as I was concerned, I didn't really own it, I was just holding on to it until Tom decided he wanted it back. That sounds ridiculous, even as I type this post out, but it's the truth. It wasn't ever my cow. Not until February, when I learned Tom would never, could never, ask for it back.

Tom was wise beyond his years. He knew life's biggest secret. He imparted it to me in 1994, but it didn't sink in until today. None of us knows what's coming in life, what's going to happen, but he was far more prepared for it than I've ever been. One of his favorite songs to sing was Bob Marley's "Everything's Gonna Be Alright", and for all the time I knew him, this was his mantra: don't worry about a thing, because every little thing is gonna be alright. It's all there in Tom's cow.

The cow is 'the present'. The cow is 'today'. The cow is 'right now'. The cow is 'my memories of the good times'. As for what happens tomorrow?

I don't know. Who cares? I have the cow.

That's what matters.

Not pictured: Tom. Pictured: The cow.