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Pe-Pe’s BBQ is no more. Spider webs decorate the windows that once held his modest neon sign. Pe-Pe’s of Court Street, a one-man operation in a room the size of my car, is out of business and out of luck.

He met you with a toothless grin; an honest, if greasy smile; a dirty-white apron, and several steaming food trays. You could get a chicken parm for ninety-nine cents – the best deal in and out of the country. And he would throw in extra onions, if he liked you; no charge. The Pepsi, -- if that’s what he was selling – was always flat, but went down smoothly.

Coming home to an empty fridge after five hours at the Belmar seemed like the only option, but then his neon sign appeared on the horizon, beckoning the weary traveler, the hungryman, the harmless drunk. I saw him feed the homeless downtown; he seemed to take pleasure in it.

Pe-Pe of Pe-Pe’s BBQ is gone. Dear friend, where ever you are, where ever you are going, may you always see angels in your rear-view mirror.