Curtis and Martin started on the same day I returned to work after my father's death. The business was expanding, and they were additions rather than replacements.
Curtis was just a year older than I was, tall and skinny with dark, moppy hair and a mustache to rival Groucho Marx. He was broody, and bossy, and had a huge smile and an even bigger laugh. He rode a motorcycle; in fact the only time I've ever been on one was when we rode together to work a party at the Virginia Living Museum out in Newport News. He insisted I wear my leather jacket and, handing me a helmet told me, "If the bike goes down, you want to tuck and slide like you're stealing base."
There was no conversation over the roar of the Harley, so for 45 minutes I was alone with my thoughts as we rode out the toll road, along the bay, and through the shiny white glare of the Hampton Roads Tunnel. I wasn't afraid, but I didn't love it, either.
If we had a choice, Curtis and I usually worked at adjoining stations. We spent our days talking and bickering about recipes and music and life in general. He loved asking "big" questions. "If God was a celebrity," he asked me one day, "who would he be?"
"That's easy," I replied without hesitation. "Paul Simon."
When Curtis moved into the extra bedroom in the house I shared with my sister and my girlfriend, it was probably a little too much togetherness. As simpatico as we were, he was like an older brother, condescending and annoying. So when he broke up with his girlfriend and moved back to Northern Virginia, I was glad to get a little space.
A few months later, the rest of our household moved north, and we weren't there more than a week when Curtis called me with a job opportunity. I accepted, but what happened next is another topic all together.
And then? There was Martin.
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