Three years ago, today. Tom called. "I have cancer. And it is bad." Bad like you might have an operation and be out of work a couple months? Bad like you might have a scar? Bad like you might die? "Die."
I can remember pacing back and forth in the living room while he was talking. I don't remember much else. My heart raced. My head swum. And all I can think was "call Mr. Fun and we have to go to his house. Now." He was alone when he heard the news. No one should be alone when they find out they have terminal cancer. Over the phone. From some stranger.
When we got there (Fun came from work) we sat there, all three of us dumbfounded. "Errr...". What do you say? He was 37. And had never been sick a day in his life.
And we have had dinner together every October 18th since. We only thought we would get one. They said we would only get one.
They were wrong.
Tonight, we are having dinner number three! Three like the Godhead. Three like Dale Earnhardt's racing number. Three like stooges and Three's Company. Three blind mice.
Three is, of course, a "magic number."
Here is to you, Tom Allison on Tom Allison Day. Behold, the power of three.
(and just for the record--I really like four too!)
