Thank you, this is all your fault

Thank you, this is all your fault. I am not superstitious. I walk under ladders, and black cats only worry me because I highly suspect licking one's fur does not get you clean. I dream about losing my teeth rather frequently, and whenever I mention this, someone inevitably shakes a finger at me, or his or her head, and tells me this is ominous. Some go as far as telling me to watch out for my loved ones, as dreaming about falling teeth, supposedly, means someone close to you will die soon. I think this is silly, but a few nights ago I dreamt I lost my wisdom tooth, and recently, I learned my Tito Bobby died. I hate learning about people dying, and I hate wakes, and I hate funerals. Hate is a strong word, I know, but sadness such as this, deserves a strong word. It probably isn't "hate," but there are certain states of mind where you search for words and come up with measly grunts and monosyllabic attempts at human expression. Tito Bobby is known by his students as Sir Bob, and he is famous for being able to crack green jokes without being offensive. That, I think, is an underestimated and unique talent. Look at that, I ought to have typed was. It is incredibly difficult to deal with tenses when someone you knew just died. Just like that. His family thought he was just in his room. The last time I saw Tito Bobby was in the faculty room of DLSU, where he taught batch after batch of students, most of whom became his adoring fans. He grinned at me the way he always did, as far back as I could remember. He had a grin like a cheshire cat, and it made me feel like he knew all my secrets but loved me anyway. Tito Bobby loved giving me absurd "forced choice" questions, which I'd always be afraid to answer, paranoid as I was that anything I said would be subject to his “psychologizing.” Tito Bobby did some pretty serious stuff, in fact, he is formally known as Dr. Roberto M. Mendoza, but for me, and almost anyone who knew him, he was a human laughter-dispenser. Not only could he make anyone laugh, he himself had a wonderful laugh, the kind you hear on cartoons from not-so-evil villains. He had just been awarded by DLSU for 25 years of service, last Tuesday. He and my Mama were counting the days until their credit coop rebates and longevity pay this March. I asked Mama if he was sick, and she said he drank like there was no tomorrow, was overweight, and had asthma. I suppose he also lived like there was no tomorrow, and maybe that was enough. Is life ever enough? I hope it was, but even so, I know he will be missed by his wife Tita Marissa, his kids Gibo, Katrina, and Meg-Meg, his students, his friends, his colleagues, and even his enemies, if he had any, though I doubt it. Tito Bobby wasn't even sixty. When I was young, I had dreams of telling him "This is all your fault." (Yes, I aimed pretty low. With overachievers in the family, I chose to be unofficial black sheep.) The fact is, I wouldn't be here, at the office, writing this, if it hadn't been for Tito Bobby. He was drinking buddies with my Papa, and my Mama's colleague, and he introduced them, some twenty-plus years ago. That didn't quite work out in the end, but here I am. I wish I had been able to tell him that this is all his fault, and thank him for it. I still don't believe dreaming about losing teeth means someone close to you will die soon, but just in case, I'm going to start telling people what I want to tell them.