It can hit anyone. Even Gregory.

Friday I heard about Gregory. He's tall, slender and handsome. And sophisticated -- Gregory knows which wine to order and can explain the three grades of cashmere. And very depressed. The pandemic has thrown him for a loop.

He worked with John and me at the beginning of our careers, back in the long-ago 1980s. He and John have remained close. I see him occasionally, but dependably for our "orphans Thanksgiving" celebration in November.

Around 1990, Gregory decided advertising wasn't for him and switched careers. He became office manager for an established, family-owned real estate firm on the North Side. They were pleased by how organized he is and, frankly, how good he looked at the front desk. He was one of the few non-family employees, but they treated him well: health care, vacation time, retirement fund.

Then, after nearly 25 years, they made a change. "The old man" retired and the next generation decided that they no longer needed anyone at the front desk or to manage supplies, appointments and vacation schedules. The real estate agents could do Gregory's job themselves from their smart phones. He was let go. As he likes to say, "Being like family and being family are two different things."

So now here he is, retired. On their timeline, not his own. He's 67 or 68 years old. Healthy. Bored. He's spent the last couple years taking short trips to family and friends in Wisconsin, Indiana and Ohio. Now on a fixed income, this man who owns his own tux takes Megabus. It's been an adjustment. He's been making noises about signing on with a temp agency -- to augment his income and to feel useful again.

Enter Covid19. Gregory quit leaving his apartment altogether in mid-March. He has his groceries delivered. He monitors the media a little too closely and is concerned about the spike in deaths and lack of testing. Hell, we all are. We all wish Donald Trump had handled this situation more wisely. But we get on with life as best we can while observing the commonsense rules in place to protect us.

Not Gregory. He's filled with anxiety. He feels vulnerable. It took John days -- literally, several calls over several days -- to convince Gregory it was OK to meet outside and visit together on public benches. They chose a date (Tuesday) and time and then Gregory cancelled it, worried that it wasn't safe.

Finally, Thursday, the old friends got together. They wore masks. Each man had his own bench. They looked at the green leaves and felt sun on (at least part) of their faces. Gregory couldn't relax, and after less than 30 minutes, they each returned to their apartments.

But John is going to try again next week. He's a good friend. But I knew that.

What I didn't realize was how fragile anyone's mental health can be. I was aware of goofy conspiracy theories embraced by the silly live-free-or-die, fight-the-tyranny, I-blame-Obama's-deep-state crowd, and that's its own special brand of crazy. But Gregory is the first person in my circle to be so caught up in his own fears and concerns that he's nearly paralyzed. I must remind myself to be more sensitive to everyone I interact with. Some of us are suffering.