R.I.P. DANNY MURRAY

The eggs don’t taste right. The bacon isn’t as crisp as it once was. The servers have lost a step and the patrons don’t smile as much. The secret sauce is gone. Danny Murray is dead.

It’s been a long, lousy month since Danny Murray passed away and no one can really believe it yet. His exit was so sudden, so unexpected that it’s impossible to walk into the Fairway diner and not see Danny the Ringmaster or hear Danny the Raconteur. Was there ever an owner, a maitre d’ or a grandmother who could make you feel more at home with so little effort? A smile, a shrug, a clearing of the throat--Danny made you feel missed and welcomed back. You mattered. Your kids mattered. Your strange weekend guest mattered. Your bad golf score mattered. Your well-done home fries mattered.

Breakfast at Fairway used to be the best meal of the day, or the week, or the winter. Full of protein and promise, easy-going and timeless. All that has changed. The cereals don’t snap, crackle or pop. The coffee doesn’t boost. The secret sauce is gone. Danny Murray is dead.

Danny had what his generation called “a gift of the gab.” He knew when to talk turkey and when to slide along the skin. He could shoot the breeze with punters and politicians alike, with bubs and bubbes, with bankers and surfers, doyens and duffers. Words poured out of him, kind words, snarky words, wise words, provocative words. Not that he wouldn’t listen—he listened hard and listened long. Like a good fisherman, he knew exactly when to sit still and when to yank a chain. And you never thought he was doing it because of his job description or a clever business decision. Authentic conviviality was second nature for Danny Murray, for he was equally amused and bemused by the whole damn human comedy.

Which is not to suggest that the realities of running a crazy diner in the Hamptons did not get to him. He could roll his Irish eyes with the best of them--Danny Murray was human, first and foremost, and honest to his core. Guests could be trying. Entitled. Hungry. Hungover. Impatient. Impolite. And Danny dealt.

Cooks could be in a funk. Servers could call in sick. Muffins could be stuck in Speonk. Bees could swarm. Rain could leak. And Danny dealt.

With aplomb and an adorable exasperation--the absurd made sense to him and the sensible made him suspicious. Danny Murray was a most happy pessimist and a most negative optimist, looking for a dark cloud whenever he saw a silver lining.

For weeks after the sad news had spread, every Fairway phone call and conversation would start with, “Tell me it’s not true.” A man so vibrant, so alive can’t leave this earth without warning, without illness, without a hint of farewell. ‘Twas the day before Christmas when his pregnant daughter was left waiting for him at the airport near Whitefish, Montana. It was only two years after losing his wife, Janet, and his father the year before that. Who can fathom the purpose of such a heartless holiday? Maybe Danny Murray could, but the rest of us mortals scratch our heads and stare into a half-empty cuppa joe.

Another muffin, please. Toasted. No hurry. And a moment of silence on the side.

What you are reading, I am late to interject, is not an obituary as much as a jeremiad, a mournful kvetch against unwarranted cruelty and godawful timing.

The official obit was sweet and loving but may have missed the mark. “Daniel H. Murray, 70, of Vero Beach, FL, and Southampton, NY passed peacefully at his home…” Seventy? Yes. Ridiculous? For sure. But Vero Beach getting top billing over Southampton? Please. Danny Murray was not a Florida man. He was born (to run) in New Jersey, and his (hungry) heart thrived in the Hamptons, on the beaches, on the golf courses, and on his sleeve. Vero Beach will get along fine without Danny Murray, but Wainscot is another matter. There is a huge hole at the Poxabogue Golf Course and it ain’t Hole #2 (Two eggs with your choice of bacon, grilled Virginia ham or fresh sausage, served with home fries and toast.)

It’s Hole #Danny.

As for the “passed peacefully” part, it’s a comforting thought, but the Danny Murray I knew would not have greeted the Grim Reaper graciously and gone into that good night gently. Offended, pissed off, he would challenge the untimely interloper and create quite a ruckus, despite knowing the game was fixed and the outcome preordained.

The obit continued: “Daniel grew up in Upper Montclair and later resided in Watermill, NY.” Daniel grew up? Not sure he would appreciate the assertion that he “grew up” anywhere. Danny Murray preserved and treasured his boyish playfulness, his sunset spliffs, his non-stop Springsteen, his sibling spirit. In a rowdy Irish family with three brothers and two sisters, older and younger, politeness was not the protocol, compromise not the goal, growing up not easy.

At the memorial service, Danny’s brother spoke emotionally and humorously, as one might expect from a Murray. The priest at the Queen of the Most Holy Rosary Church seemed to know Danny well enough, though he spoke more intimately about Jesus. The somber gathering filled every seat and then overflowed into the vestibule. SRO. Just like the Fairway diner on a Sunday morning. Only there was no Danny to make the time pass quicker and the inconvenience enjoyable. No one really minded, not family, not friends, not employees past or current, not golf buddies, fishing mates, customers, or congregants. Danny Murray was worth standing up for.

And if you were moved to donate a little something in his name, said the small print, please contribute to Western Golf Association Evans Scholars Foundation. It provides “high-achieving golf caddies with limited financial means” a full ride for four years at top-tier colleges, and has a 95 percent graduation rate.

Golf. Disadvantaged kids. Higher education. The perfect Danny Murray trifecta.

The eggs still don’t taste right. The bacon isn’t crispy enough. And there ain’t nothing you can do about any of it except remember Danny Murray and a story you once heard. A Zen Master greets his oldest friend with “Have a cup of tea.” Soon after, the Zen Master greets a total stranger with the same “Have a cup of tea.” A student has observed all this and asks the Zen Master how can he greet such disparate parties with the same exact salutation.

“Have a cup of tea,” says the Master.

Rest in peace, Danny Murray.