I met Matty in the fall of 2017 when we both started as sound techs for The Poetry Project. I was twenty-three at the time and also working at Strand Bookstore. Though Matty was a bit older, we quickly bonded over our shared interests in poetry and bookselling. Matty was remarkably easy to talk to and a hoot to be around. That year I attended nearly every Wednesday night reading—my night off—just to hang out with Matty at the sound table. I still didn’t know many people in the poetry scene (in the city at all, really) but knowing Matty, knowing there would be someone at readings who I could talk to, who would be happy to see me, made it easier to start showing up.

Eventually Matty asked me to cover shifts at Better Read Than Dead. About once a week, for $10/hr, I’d perch alone in the corner of Dave and Matty’s musty, unheated shipping container-turned-storefront, and sell books. I loved it. I remember feeling intensely lucky back then, almost to the point of disbelief. All of a sudden I had this cool gig at the coolest bookstore, run by the coolest and second coolest (sorry, Dave) guys I knew.

Some of my fondest memories are at that bookshop, punching darts with Matty and poring over whatever strange finds he and Dave had hauled in from a recent buy. At first I was a little intimidated by the breadth of Matty’s knowledge. He seemed to know everything about books, art, music, you name it. But Matty never made me feel stupid or somehow innately wrong for my naïveté—he met every question with patience, a startling kindness, and a real eagerness to share his passions.

I credit my friendship with Matty with helping bridge a somewhat latent, awkward transition into adulthood. Through Matty’s influence, I began exploring spaces I’d previously shied away from and formed connections with some of my favorite people in the world. Through his interest in me, I got a better look at myself, became more confident, developed thoughts I could stand by.

But my experience isn’t unique. Everyone who knew and loved Matty can attest to his warm curiosity, his knack for meeting people as individuals with something to offer. The night after Matty passed, I couldn’t sleep. I lied in bed, pulled out my phone, and texted his number, “thanks for always making me feel like a coconspirator.” I wasn’t sure why, it was the first thing I could think of, but it fits. Matty had a way of making you feel part of the fold, like he was clueing you into some scheme he trusted only you to keep secret. He gave this subtle permission, this power, freely, to seemingly everyone he met. I wouldn’t be the same person today without Matty and I suspect that’s the case for many people reading this. He looked us in the eye. He let us in. He kept the door propped wide open. Thanks Matty.