Updated "Sam"

I still remember quite clearly this iconic figure that drifted in and out of my life as a little kid, and then, just as quickly, faded out. I knew him as "Sam".

He was kind of like a cartoon. You could always rely on him to stay the same. Same cheapo teamster style jacket, same impenatrable dome of silvery-black hair. Whether this was a product of not showering or some very effective Brylcreem, I'll never know. He always smelled like Marlboros.

Apparently, he was some kind of contractor my dad became friends with sometime in the mid-80's when our house was being built. It was kind of a weird picture - a married, thirtysomething man with two young children, hanging out with this relic 30 years his senior, who looked like John Wayne if he had gotten in a fight with a meat grinder- and survived.

I don't recall him ever saying that much to me - ever. He was a nice enough guy when I was around, probably because I was so little. The things I do are little snapshots, like riding in his old black pickup truck with the white tool box attached behind the cab. (From that day forward, I've judged every pickup if it had a tool box behind the cab. Even at age three, I had standards.) On those rides, I remember the empty cigarette cartons sliding from side to side with every turn. It was a very foreign world to me - but strangely enough, I felt safe.

Sam died not too long before my tenth birthday. It came as a huge shock to me. Even if I didn't know him that well, the small moments I did spend around him left me with several memories I won't forget.

I still don't think I've ever seen my father so close to crying then I did that day. It's still hard for my dad to talk about him sometimes. Every time he tells a Sam story, that sad tone returns, and he says the same exact thing.

"Sam was my buddy, I miss him."