“Hey man, do you remember that guy from Skanky’s called Sneaky Pete?” 

In a past life, I spent summers in a small town in California. The only remaining contact from that time is my buddy, Chester. Chester and I were involved in a few ill-conceived enterprises back then. We also worked at the same restaurant/bar affectionately known as Skanky’s.  

Chester calls me a few times a year. I love his calls because they don’t require I talk much. When I pick up the phone there is neither greeting nor introduction; he continues the conversation as if we spoke minutes before.

When I told him I couldn’t recall anyone named Sneaky Pete, but for some reason I had a vague recollection of a waitress named ‘Scary Mary,’ Chester (unnecessarily) informed me that those were two different people. But, he did allow that Scary Mary was, in fact, very scary.

Trying to get him back on track, I reminded him, “No I don’t recall Sneaky Pete; why do you ask?” 

If I hoped it would be that easy to get an answer from my old friend, I was mistaken.

“Man, you must remember Pete. He worked in the kitchen … had a Harley and bunch of tattoos.” (This was back in the day when tattoos weren’t found on bankers and school teachers. Then, out of left field, Chester added, “And his wife had a mustache.” 

The mustache got my attention. “His wife had a mustache?” I asked.

“Yeah, remember her? Her name was Maria. She hung out at the bar and had a mustache.”   

The truth was I had no idea who Pete was, but I did kind of remember a gal that used to spend time at the bar and did have a slight ‘stache. Now I know that lots of ladies have a little facial hair that they deal with various ways. Some wax or laser; some even shave and some don’t bother. But this gal was one of those who didn’t bother. Actually, I think a little peach fuzz on a lady can be cute, but Maria had much more than fuzz — she had a real-life lip warmer that would make any high school kid proud. 

With my recollection of Maria, her husband came somewhat into focus. “Yes, I do remember Maria and I sort of remember some biker guy with lots of tats. What about him?”

Chester ignored my question and once again, headed off into the stratosphere. “I always wondered why she didn’t just wax or laser that ‘stache’. My wife does that. But then again it didn’t seem to bother Sneaky, they really seemed to be in love.”

“Chester!!” I said, “I beg of you, why did you call me? What about Sneaky Pete?”

The line went quiet, “Oh yeah, right, sorry. He’s dead.”

Chester continued that Pete was found leaning against a tree on a mountain road, his bike parked next to him, dead from a heart attack. He was 66 years old. 

Chester added he had just returned from Pete’s funeral and the parking lot was packed with old trucks and choppers. “It was a beautiful service,” he said with emotion. “The guy giving the eulogy had one eye.” 

I offered my condolences, but I had to add that peacefully dying on the side of the road isn’t a bad way to go. Chester agreed and offered,  “It’s so cool that he didn’t crash his Harley. That thing had a killer paint job.”  

Whenever I talk to Chester, I feel like I’ve been taking crazy pills. I had to get off the phone. “Hey man, I got to go, but I’m sorry about Pete. It seems like you guys stayed in touch.” I added that Pete’s death, though premature by modern American standards, didn’t seem too bad when compared to the other options of the great inevitable. Of course I was sorry for Sneaky Pete’s friends and family, but in truth the only thing that all of us have in common is death. 

If you believe in an afterlife, Sneaky Pete is fine,  and if you don’t, well, Pete is fine. As I age and become more cognizant of  inevitabilities and possibilities, my perspective has evolved and, along with it, my appreciation. “Enjoy every sandwich,” said Warren Zevon. We don’t know where, when or how but we do know it’s inescapable.     

As if reading my mind Chester said, “Pete was a happy guy, lived a good life. He loved choppers, and loved his wife. Do you remember his wife? She had a mustache and he didn’t care. He loved her for what was both inside and out. That was so beautiful.”

If you listen long enough, my buddy Chester is bound to say something profound. 

Jeffrey Bergeron’s column “Biff America” publishes Mondays in the Summit Daily News. Bergeron has worked in TV and radio for more than 30 years, and his column can be read in several newspapers and magazines. He is the author of “Mind, Body, Soul.” Bergeron arrived in Breckenridge when there was plenty of parking and no stoplights. Contact him at biffbreck@yahoo.com.