From a New York Times profile of Aaron Horwitz, my brother-in-law’s cousin, murdered on September 11, 2001.
Finding Good in a Bad Day
Once, Aaron Horwitz had what most people would consider a supremely lousy day. A friend asked him how he would rate it, from 1 to 10, with 1 the worst.
“Eight,” he replied.
You could get a contact high from Mr. Horwitz, 24, a bond broker at Cantor Fitzgerald with the almost laughable responsibility of entertaining clients and making them feel like the most important people in the world.
As if anyone had to pay him. For he was not just a showman, who did the Michael Jackson moonwalk on bar tops and who, at a museum, drew his own masterpiece on a mist-coated window next to a Rembrandt.
He seized souls, not letting go until he made them merry. He met a guy in a toy store and, moments later, the two were having a hula-hoop contest. He insisted a concierge stop weeping over a bad breakup, then called her at 2:30 a.m. to make sure. He sweet-talked hostesses at four-star restaurants into producing tables for eight (and their phone numbers for dates) and persuaded a street masseur to let Mr. Horwitz give him a massage.
“You could talk to a brick wall,” his father told him. Yes, allowed the son, but he preferred chatting with a mirror. He often did so, then fell over, laughing.
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