Turtle

I’m at work when Lenny tells me that Jeff Cuttner has died. His news arrives as the innocuous chime of an instant message, the intermittent soundtrack of my empty office. It’s a link without context, and it takes me a minute to make sense of the Florida daily-news website that subsequently pops open. The entire article is barely a hundred words. A car accident, four in the morning, driver suspected to be asleep at the wheel. And Cuttner’s stats of course: six-foot-five, three hundred ten pounds. The article closes with a quote from his agent, calling it a tragedy.