He was so debonair. He became a client in 1986, this public affairs man for the Los Angeles Department of Water of Power. He hired the company I worked for to do many projects for the DWP. I absolutely loved working for him.
He was so well rounded, so well educated, so enlightening.
I was about 25 when I first went to work with him; I think I completed the last project for him not long after the Northridge earthquake, probably about 1994 or 1995.
We would take him to lunch every time we were down in L.A., which ended up being twice a month. He talked of his sons. He talked of his beautiful wife. He talked of being a Jew. He talked of how, as a Jew, he thought we got what we deserved while we were alive.
We argued about that point. I would argue, with this man 20 years my senior, that life wasn't fair. That I held out hope that God would even the score in the afterlife. He argued that Jews didn't believe in such, that they believed the score was evened in this lifetime.
He was a perfect nemesis. As he was my client, I was obliged to do his bidding. And I did. And much as he drove me absolutely crazy with his nit-picking, he was always right.
I left that company, and so I left that client, and I moved on.
One of the last things I heard about him through my colleague (who was, as it so often happens, also my lover) was that the client was in the early stages of Parkinson's Disease.
Searching through memory banks yesterday, I came upon his name and then I searched the web.
A couple of months ago, 68-year-old Jerald Pferfferman wandered from home and fell into a ravine. He was discovered a number of hours later, rescued. Alive, but suffering from hypothermia.
I age, surely, and those around me and beyond me age as well. I wish it weren't so.