Rest eternal give us, God.

I had time off between temp jobs last week. On my first day off, Tuesday, I received a call from Detective Valasquez telling me that my friend, Bran Marah, had passed away and that I was named in his Last Will and Testament as co-executor. I could pick up the will at the precinct. And would I please identify his remains.

Sometime before that (I guess I'll find out the official date when I pick up his Death Certificates this evening) Bran had enclosed a letter, his Will and keys to his apartment in an envelope and mailed it to his local police precinct. Then, I'm told, he put a pillow in his bathtub, swallowed two bottles of pills, put a plastic bag over his head and lay down in the bathtub. The police received his letter, went to his apartment and removed his body (and wallet).

Wednesday Sam accompanied me to the city morgue to look at pictures of his dead face. There were three. Two were "cleaned up." I preferred not-cleaned-up. The body bag was drawn around Bran's face. His bushy beard was partially obscured; his mass of curly hair not visible except for some short hairs up front. His face was puffy. His nose seemed squashed. His lips discolored. Blood vessels had burst around his closed eyes. "Yeah, I guess that's him. He had a beard and long, curly hair, a kind of wide nose and he was found in Jerome's apartment. It's him. Could you please put the pictures away?"

I knew Bran for about fifteen years. We met at my second Citibank job. We passed notes to each other using one of the earliest versions of instant messaging. We were enamored with each other. He cross-stitched my "American Song In Recital" logo on a sweatshirt as a gift. He was a genius. He wore a cape. He was a friend of Stephen Sondheim's. He was a dedicated Tolkien fan. A magician. A story teller. Into leather. A bear after he gained several pounds. He learned stilt walking when I introduced him to my stilt teacher and became a part of John's little circus troupe. He got Sam and me onstage at the Metropolitan Opera House as supers for the 2nd act of "La Boheme." He lent us costumes and we all went the Renaissance Fair in Tuxedo, NY. Some of our most unusual photos came from that outing. We accompanied Jerome on one of his numerous group trips to "Cirque du Soleil." He did that kind of stuff a lot: organize group trips to interesting arts events.

He disassociated with his birth family and foster parents, changed his name and never told his age for reasons his closest friends would never learn from him. When he realized that he and I would only remain friends, he left his job, shaved his head, mailed his hair to his best friend on the West Coast and disappeared into another job. We slowly gained contact many months later when he was to perform in one of his cabarets.

He attended most of my recitals. He performed in one of Sam's Big Apple Corps band concerts I produced. He improvised lights with "Play It By Ear," an improv opera group I was in. We kept in casual contact. We hadn't spoken in about three years when I received the call from the police.

After identifying his body, we went way uptown to get his will. I'm co-executor with someone I've been unable to reach. The alternate doesn't want to participate. Bran's effects are to be sold and the proceeds divided between two theatrical organizations and the executor(s). His body is to be cremated and his ashes scattered at sea.

Sam and I escaped to Massachusetts until Saturday night. While I was getting ready to leave for church the phone rang. It was Mary Ellen, who had been trying to phone and e-mail Bran for two weeks. She called friends, hospitals and finally the city morgue, where she got my name and number. She usually spoke with Bran every day for the past four years. She was sad and exhausted. I was the first friend to know of Bran's death. Mary Ellen is making sure that everyone else will know.