I've been traveling to Atlanta for years but it's my first time with Ben.
2 Peachtree, once the tallest building in the south east, was built in 1966, has 44 stories and was home to First Atlanta Bank ... where Ben presided.
I am mesmerized because I hate the building.
It's now own by the State of Georgia, purchased to keep people working in downtown Atlanta so Government employees are coerced to remain where everyone's moving out to give the appearance of a thriving metropolis.
Elected Officials do not run Government.
Lifelong bureaucrats do.
2 Peachtree Street is full of them and Ben and I are making the rounds to ensure our work with the homeless, the sick, the addicted and the uninsured have what they need to recover, heal and thrive.
We're quite the Mutt and Jeff team, as Ben calls us.
He's drips professional dignity while I look like the bagboy at Kroger.
He is a God in the world of banking and homeless people, those with AIDS and every addiction known comprise mine.
Nevertheless we are wildly successful bringing millions of dollars to those who would never have received the help necessary to live.
Ben was in his 70s when we making the rounds.
Yesterday he died.
"Well," I sigh to Sarah with a crack in my voice, "he was a good friend and we had one Hell of a ride."
And we did.
In his 90s we'd meet for lunch and reminisce about the "old days" until he couldn't anymore so it's been months since we were last together.
"Do you remember when I had the Triple Malt Scotch in my briefcase?" he asks last time over lunch in Marsh Harbor at The Landings.
I showed up wearing a UGA tee shirt so they gave me an awful gold collared shirt to let me in which makes me look fat.
"I do. Terry Ball met us for dinner that night after a grueling day of begging and we were having sips when he arrives."
"Yep," Ben smiles and for the last time ... I see a twinkle in his eyes.
"We kicked some ass," I laugh placing my hand on top of his.
"We did that," he laughs.
Those are the last words he's left me.
