My dear friend and former roommate Mike Morrissey died unexpectedly yesterday from what appears to be a heart ailment. He moved to KC for a job about six years ago, not knowing a soul. His quick wit, his heavy Philly accent and his talkative nature quickly won me over, along with all of my friends who immediately welcomed him in to the fold.

I decided I would honor Mike by reminiscing about some of my favorite “Morrissey stories.” Whenever I would introduce Mike to someone, I’d pepper in one of these anecdotes. Mike heard me tell these tales so many times, he eventually started finishing the stories himself.

When Mike showed up on my doorstep to introduce himself and see if we’d be compatible roommates, he was fidgety. Extremely fidgety. While sitting on the couch, he would bob, weave, sway, rock and jerk uncontrollably.  After about 30 minutes of chit-chat (and a couple beers), I finally asked, “I’m sorry, but do you have cerebral palsy? Is there anything I can do to help?”  He burst out laughing.  Turns out Mike was stung on the tush several times the day before by a pesky scorpion while in Arizona. He was so wildly uncomfortable that he wasn’t even aware of how antsy he was being. “Sorry — my ass is killing me sittin’ here,” he chuckled. “I’d show you where the scorpion bit me, but I don’t think we know each other that well.”

Mike’s heavy Philly accent was legendary. I could listen to him read the ingredients off the back of a cereal box. The first time I heard him say, “Eh, don’t bust my bawl-zzz”, I nearly died laughing. Every morning I’d hear him bellow, “Where’s my freakin’ caw-fee?!” It became a running gag in the house. Even funnier? Every time I’d try to mimic or mock his dese-dem-dose-dat accent, he’d balk. “You’s doin’ a Bronx accent, Mackie,” he would admonish. “Gawd, get it right!”  I remember listening to his answering machine message at work and commenting how professional (and non-East Coasty) he sounded. Turns out he felt so at ease around me, the accent came pouring out.  It was like old home week around here.

Speaking of Philly, I started bugging Mike to take me to his hometown pretty much from the day he moved in.  Eventually, we booked a trip to see the sights and eat our weight in cheese steaks. He let me run up the “Rocky” steps. He begrudgingly let me take his picture by the Liberty bell. And he even picked up the tab at his favorite Italian restaurant downtown. It was truly one of the best weekends of my life. Brotherly love, indeed.

A few months after Mike moved in, I came down with a wicked case of Bronchitis. I was coughing so much, I was having trouble sleeping. One night before I turned in, Mike handed me something. “Drink this. It’s a Hawt Taw-dy,” he said.  From what I could tell, it was a magical elixir of butane and honey.  I never slept better in my life.  He never did share with me what went in the drink, claiming it was a family recipe.  After my Bronchitis cleared up, I’d still ask Mike to make me a Hot Toddy every once and awhile.  He’d gladly oblige and usually join me in imbibing.

Mike liked to grill out … constantly. I’d often come home to an entire cow, chicken or pig being served up. Eventually my friends got word about Mike’s BBQ’ing skills and would randomly show up with a side dish. I saw more of my friends after he moved in than I ever did before.  “I think we should have a pawt-luck this weekend,” he’d announce. “We’re gonna need more beer though.”

Every time I’d hear the jingle-jangle of his keys in the door, I knew the party was about to start. He’d immediately start in on what happened at work.  Not a day went by that he didn’t tell me me a story about his beloved mom or 2,945 nieces and nephews.  And he was forever talking about some story he read in the “pay-puhh”. I missed him after he moved out to his own place. The house was unusually boring and serene.  Now that he’s gone, I think the world just got a little quieter too. I miss him already. RIP, Mike, you were, as you would say, da’ man!