You couldn't help but notice that Dent Sullivan was no fashion plate.
When I was the editor up the road at the Lenoir News-Topic in the late 1980s, Dent was the paper's finance officer. He was in his early 40s then, and no matter how nicely he dressed, he always ended up looking like he'd slept in his clothes the night before — his tie was loose, his shirttail was partly out and his bushy hair looked like he'd combed it with a blender.
"Disheveled" perfectly described Dent in a single, elegant word.
Dent was tall and stocky, given to squinting when he was thinking. And since he managed the newspaper's money, he thought and squinted a lot. He usually had an extra-length cigarette sticking out of his mouth, hanging straight down, with ashes scattered on his clothes.
Like a couple of my other friends, Dent had the baffling ability to be grumpy and cheerful at the same time.
When Dent and I stood together, some mention of Laurel and Hardy was almost inevitable.
Dent died earlier this month from a heart attack.
At his funeral visitation, I stood in line for an hour and a half before I was even remotely close enough to get a glimpse of his family. From the number of folks at his visitation, it would appear that the entire city of Lenoir was his friend.
I should not have been surprised.
Everybody liked the guy. My wife liked him the moment she met him. I think she saw some of her father in him.
I decided he was my best buddy when he came hustling down the hall at work every time he heard a hot-headed visitor raising his voice at me. I initially thought he was coming to make sure I wasn't in any danger; to act as my very large bodyguard. Wrong. I eventually figured out that he just liked watching me get angry and red-faced.
"It's funny how the veins pop out on your temples when you're mad," he'd said.
Our daughters were the same age and in the same grade at Hibriten High School. Both girls were fun to be around, and our fondness for each other's daughter was a cornerstone of our friendship. It's a Dad thing — if you like my kid, you are my friend.
At the visitation, I saw twin boys trotting around, maybe 10 years old or so. Holy cow! I'd never seen them before, but there could be no doubt that they were Dent's grandsons. That Sullivan DNA is some potent stuff, overpowering all rival genes.
When I joined this paper less than three months ago, I called Dent the second day I was here. I hadn't seen him in close to 15 years, and I was looking forward to renewing our friendship. We made plans to get together on some upcoming weekend.
And like a complete idiot, I failed to follow up on our plans. Now Dent is gone and an opportunity to enjoy the company of a good man and a good friend is lost forever.
Life is too short to make plans and not follow through on them.
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