Moments after Pete D’Agostino and I posed for this snapshot, we said goodbye on the corner of Zachary’s Pizza and College Avenue in Rockridge and went our separate ways. Pete headed south while we turned east and waited for the light. Just after he crossed the street, he turned and shouted: “And don’t leave anything of value in your car wherever you park it in California!” He then stretched out his arm and made a sweeping motion. “I mean the entire state of California!”
“Okay, thanks,” we said, laughing. Pete was always good at giving helpful advice. He waved, wiggled that famous mustache and said, “Mmmmmmyes. Good-night.”
It was a short walk to our Tahoe, which was parallel parked on College Avenue across from the restaurant. I don’t remember who first noticed the pile of glass crystals on the street next to the truck, but when I saw the gaping, jagged hole in the rear side window, I felt the violence of the smash in my gut.
It was a classic smash-and-grab on a busy Oakland thoroughfare, and it happened right next to us as we ate pizza and visited with our dear friend. Yet we neither heard nor saw the thief who damaged our ride and stole our fully stocked travel disc golf bags. Thankfully, they had been the only valuable things still inside the vehicle after our day of traveling north from San Clemente.
This happened during the first week of March 2020. Days later, life as we knew it changed due to COVID-19, which forced us all to retreat and shelter in place.
In the months and years that passed, Pete and I spoke on the phone, shared texts and photos, and made Facebook comments to one another. His son came to visit last summer and it felt a little like being with Pete, but it turns out that fateful night on College Avenue was the last time I saw him. It was the last time I shared pizza with him, put my arms around him, or mugged for a camera with him.
Pete died on Thanksgiving day last November after a crash without explanation.
Mike sent this photo to me today. I stared at it for a long time while the memory of that evening at Zachary’s played in my head. It gutted me, and put me through all the stages of grief until finally, I had to accept that our friend Pete, a best man at our wedding, is gone, gone, gone. California had once again stolen something I valued. Unfortunately, it hurts a hell of a lot more than losing my plastic.
Fly freely, dear friend, and rest in peace. We miss you.