One of the good ones, Martin. Taught me important, basic stuff I'd somehow missed out on, like that it's okay—necessary, in fact—to say, "Fuck them, what do you want?" and to not believe that ridiculous bullshit about how you shouldn't take your single malt on the rocks. He'd actually put together and lived by a set of commandments. There were twelve of them, if I recall, and they boiled down to this: Don't be an asshole, and do good work. For him, that was doing ad stuff and supporting Manchester United. Glasgow-born, Manchester-educated, Martin was a fearsome supporter of Manchester United. He believed in Manchester United. He also believed, much to the misfortune of his neighbors, that the louder he shouted at his TV, the more he could influence a match. He had framed newspapers on his wall from when United had won the league or the cup or whatever. He skipped work when it interfered with him watching his team.

As it turned out, Manchester United was the one thing I could say no to him about: his constant invites to join him—just once!—at some punishingly early hour at Nevada Smiths ("Where Football Is Religion") to watch Manchester United play those cunts from wherever. I never went. Not ever. I hated sports. I couldn't give a shit less about Liverpool or Chelsea.

He got me a Manchester United jersey anyway. An enticement, unrequited, to join him in support of his team. I wore it, once, to watch the 2008 Euro final when Spain beat Germany, 1–0. I didn't have anything else going on, so I threw on the jersey—why not?—and walked down the hall to watch the match at Martin's. He was patient in explaining things I would soon forget—the same things everyone new to the sport doesn't understand and soon forgets. (On injury time: "A few extra minutes to make up for the time they spent fucking about.") That was the only soccer game—sorry: footie match—I ever watched with Martin.

···

It was around Christmas 2008 when Martin and his wife separated. He'd been working in the UK, and upon his return to New York City, Martin and his MacBook became a daily fixture in our household. I would wake up, miserably hungover from having been carousing with Martin, and there Martin would be, sitting at our table, chatting with my wife, using our Wi-Fi, happily pouring a dash of vodka into his coffee.

"Want some?" he'd ask, all sunshine. I'd decline, and then the day's soccer report would begin. I'd tune out and make coffee and nod along and politely decline his invites to watch whatever matches were on tap for that weekend. Martin was especially keen on someone named Rooney, whom, he said, I had to see and whose brilliance would convert me, instantly. Surely! But I nevertheless passed. My excuse: I was closing in on finishing a draft of my second novel and couldn't spare the time. (The novel is long since finished and remains unsold. Ha!)

Also, he was tough to be around all the time. This is a stupid thing to say, but it's true that whatever he did, he did the shit out of. As a bachelor, that consisted of herculean drinking. Some blow. Breaking our furniture. He'd show up with strange new bruises, but he didn't know how he got them, or why, or from whom. We would set out to walk our dogs, and it'd turn into a drink, and then another, and then—well, you get the idea. I took a silly pride in being able to hack, but then I couldn't anymore. I started avoiding him. I lied. I was busy. I had work to do. I had so much work to do I couldn't even walk down the hall to have a drink. He'd ring the bell and I wouldn't answer it. I loved Martin, but I could no longer do it. Self-preservation kicked in.