improvidence

It was the coldest day in January and Improvidence was playing a gig at Brandeis. As we were meeting the Brandeis troupe for the first time, Gabe told them his name and at least three of their members responded with, “Gabe Gonzalez? The Gabe Gonzalez?”

I can’t remember how Gabe responded (probably something simultaneously warm, self-deprecating, funny, and respectful), but I hadn’t known about Gabe’s national celebrity status as a humorous speaker.

Being in a scene with Gabe was always simple, easy. He was playful and creative, yes, but he always went well out of his way to make you look good—which is much rarer than it sounds—and he was willing to go anywhere his character leads—which is much harder than it sounds. Moreover, Gabe was simply a good man. I suppose, in this life, that’s all any of us can ask for— he was a good man. But Gabe was so much more.

I’m reminded of Cicero’s parting words to the Roman Fraternus:

“Erodotus er tu es creatus sanctus. Veridium es democritus ex de concatecus.”

Which translates to “Be not so swift to condone as to be condoned; love those who have loved your loved ones, and bring nothing but joy into the world.”

In a few years, you’ll be going out of your way to tell all your friends that you knew Gabe Gonzalez when he was in an improv troupe back in Providence. They’ll be all, no way. And you’ll say, yes—he was so clearly the best; he could have stolen every show in his sleep. But he didn’t. He didn’t even suggest that he knew he could—and we all loved him for that.

Then you’ll pause, look down into your drink, and feel a tear of warm nostalgia. Then you’ll make a joke about butts to clear the air. But you’ll think to yourself that you were lucky to have known him.

We were all lucky to have known him.

Jeff Goldblum
Bangor, Maine
March 16th, 2010