Goodbye, My Friend.
Rich Hajjar I Am So Grateful We Met.
As friends, this road we wander together can be long and winding, drawing us closer or pulling us apart.
Our paths cross just often enough to make you believe in fate, in the eternity of friendship—days forgiving of time, hours full of laughter and sun. For a while, you walk side by side thinking, Okay, maybe this is how it will be now.
Then you pause. It’s 25 years later. You stop and look around, and suddenly someone is gone.
That someone is my friend Rich Hajjar.
When I heard Rich died on Monday, my first reaction was raw and instinctive: No. I don’t believe it. That can’t be right... No.
It had been months since Rich and I last had a real conversation, the kind where time dissolves into laughter. As men of a certain age, we gathered around the usual topics: friend group gossip, comparing meds and reading glasses, eye rolls at aches and pains, and our customary post-modern despair about politics. Laughing at the absurdity of it all.
Life, as it does, kept us busy, him here and me there, each of us promising, “Soon, soon. Let’s get together soon.”
Still, we crossed paths: quick smiles at coffee shops, hugs in bars and street fairs, comments on each other’s posts. Occasional “Bitch please! 🙄,” “💯 Fuck um! 🤣,” or “Love you!😍” Emojis scattered about, overused, a bit awkward, a lot heartfelt.
With Rich, I never had to explain myself. We could pick up right where we left off, no matter how much time had passed or where we were on our journey. That kind of friendship is a home you return to, again and again, without needing directions. A well-worn road.
And yet here I am, thinking of the man who stood beside me 20 years ago on the most pivotal day of my life, the day I brought my two-month-old son home.
Long before that day in Pomona, before fatherhood was something I dared to consider, I met Rich and his husband Mike, not long after moving to Los Angeles in 2000. I rented office space in Silver Lake, above Akbar, with Mike. Before long, the three of us wove ourselves into a tight constellation. For a few years, we were inseparable, one of those friendships that feels like a secret club with its own language.
Rich could make me laugh out loud. Not a polite exhale, but a real laugh at life’s ridiculous curveballs, whether at the grocery store or a tough Monday.
In the early 2000s, we spent long afternoons at The Abbey, drinking martinis with a confidence I no longer possess and plotting marketing strategies for our little hookup website. Warm light, clinking glasses, conversations ranging from the ridiculous to the heartfelt. Those were the days that happen when you’re fully seen and fully loved.
Rich and Mike built a kind of love that spills outward, the kind you feel just by being near them. Some of my favorite memories are the three of us packed into a booth, laughing too loudly and loving each other like chosen family does.
When I decided to become a single dad, Rich stood by me without hesitation. He never wavered in his belief in me.
Then came the day we drove to Pomona to pick up my son.
Terrified, I clung to him. Literally and figuratively. He never let me drown in fear. He was a cheerleader, a brother, a lifeline. He stood with me as I stepped into fatherhood, as if he always knew I could do it.
My heart is with Mike and their family. Mike shared a life with Rich that the rest of us were lucky to witness, even if only briefly.
Losing Rich has made all of us reflect on what we build together in this community. How friendships become family, how queer life stitches together the most unlikely and beautiful support systems. Our makeshift families are built on a quiet agreement: we show up for each other as long as we can. And when someone can’t stay, we keep walking. Not because it’s easy, but because the road doesn’t stop for any of us.
What we must do is remember. Love. Laugh at the memory of martinis and ridiculous marketing meetings for a website we proudly created together. And be fiercely grateful our paths ever crossed.
Rich was my friend.
He helped me find my way to my son.
And I will miss him.
Salute to you, old friend. 🍸
-David
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Some friendships don’t just drift away; they leave a mark that outlives the years you shared a table. Rich sounds like the kind of man who slips into your life with laughter and then anchors you when it matters. Losing someone like that doesn’t fade; it reshapes the landscape. All you can do is carry the part of him that helped you become the father, the friend, the man you are now. Salute to him, and to the kind of chosen family that makes a life worth living.
My condolences, David...to you and everyone who knew and loved Rich.
Rest in peace and power, Mr. Hajjar....