A Friend, Gone

Last night my mother called to deliver bad news. My family is not good at this. I often don't find out about deaths of import for months. I know it is to protect me--but it is hard.

So we talked for 20 minutes and then she dropped the bomb. I can hear her change of tone and when she heard my fear she almost didn't tell me.

A friend had died. In a horrible accident.

His name was Nick Givotovsky. Our parents were friends and in truth we only saw each other maybe a total of five times as adults. But they were important. He sought me out at Columbia, introduced me to one of my best friends in Japan, and came and hunted me down in Los Angeles, and we met on the beach and played--me, him and his beautiful, open actress wife Laura.

So I was not one of his closest friends. But this I can say about him. He had the life force of about 7 normal people. He was, simply, dazzling. He was warm, open, quick and exciting. He came to our house for dinner once and we joked that he was an entire dinner party unto himself--providing every thought, counterpoint, interesting critique and resolution. And yet, in him, it did not feel overwhelming. It was like witnessing live theater. You just felt lucky to be there. He just had a mind that was that lively, absolutely on fire. To bask in his presence was a gift. My father called him a bright star.

He was beautiful.

On July 3 he was bounced from his tractor when it hit a stump and run over by the blades. He was killed almost instantly. It is hard to explain what I feel. Sadness, yes, of course. But why do we lose our brightest stars early? Why?

Goodbye, Nick. I feel so lucky to have known you.