He Was My Role Model. My Mentor. My Supplier.

O.G. rings me in the a.m. to say he’s just touched down in Phoenix. It’s the day before he said he’d arrive, and while there was a time when I’d treat the seeming opacity of his plans as par, the call’s a minor surprise. He asks for my address and tells me he can drop by as soon as he grabs his rental car. “Cool,” I say, as if the call ain’t ramped my pulse, as if my crib is presentable for guests. It isn’t. So I shoot out of bed and get to cleaning and straightening the first floor, going so far as to light a candle. It’s been umpteen years since I’ve seen O.G. — Lonnie’s his name — and God forbid he judge me anything less than hella fastidious.

When Lonnie rings the doorbell about an hour later, the sound jolts me. He stands a foot back from the threshold, looking into an iPhone, his used-to-be-clean-shaven face is stubbled white. He’s dressed casual in an Adidas hoodie, sweatpants and sneakers, all black, and wears tinted wood-stemmed glasses. There’s a letter-size envelope tucked under an arm and a white mask in his hand.

We shake hands, tug each other into a quick embrace, and I lead him into my living room. He sits on a stool pushed against the patio door, and there’s six feet of distance between us — for Covid, but also for the space that a man nurtured a certain way should grant a man of his ilk.

“Man, I’m fully vaccinated and boosted,” I say.

“I’ve already had it twice,” Lonnie says. “I just wear the mask to be respectful.” His voice hasn’t changed.

Still — the low-volume West Coast, Southern-rooted drawl that demands patience and stricter-than-average attention.

Still — the clean and sheened bald head.

Still — the slim build, though it’s now accented with a slight paunch.