You're asking for trouble when you put a headline with the word "memories" in it over a story about a guy who's still breathing, but a little trouble never hurt anyone.
Myron Rushetzky is very much alive, but the legendary figure he cut in New York City journalism is now a thing of the past because Myron has hung up his telephone for good.
To countless ink-stained wretches, past and present, this is like hearing that the Statue of Liberty is leaving the harbor.
For more than 30 years, Myron was the ear of the New York Post. You called the city desk, you got Myron.
Take a moment and think about what that job would be like. No publication in the history of the world makes more noise and pisses off more people than The Post.
So anybody with a quarter and a gripe, a threat, a rant or a rave had access to the ear of Mr. Rushetzky.
I answered phones at The Post on the day shift for more than a year, and the job eroded my already dubious love for humanity. The best part of my day was when Myron showed up to relieve me and my fellow crash-test dummy on the phones, Donnie Sutherland.
By the end of our shift Donnie and I always looked as if we'd given blood, but Myron was immaculate and ready to go -- hair neatly brushed, mustache trimmed to perfection, loose black vest open over his shirt.
"Anything I should know?" Myron would ask as he took the hot seat.
"Yeah, buddy. I'm very glad to see you."
And Myron had to keep his cool while fielding phone calls from an equally nutty bunch -- the New York Post staff.
Small wonder his patience occasionally wore thin.
When I was a rookie reporter I caught a horrendous bug that had me hugging the porcelain all night long. I called Myron to say I wouldn't be in.
A little while later my sister Mary called The Post and asked to speak with me.
"He's out sick," Myron snapped.
"What's wrong with him?" Mary persisted.
"I don't know," Myron replied. "He's shittin' and pukin' his head off."
Mary called me at home. "Who's this Myron guy?" she asked, repeating his blunt report about my physical condition.
"Sorry about that," I said. "You probably caught him at a busy time."
"It's ok," she laughed. "Actually, I found him oddly charming."
Oddly charming, indeed.
One of Myron's oddest charms of all was his habit of sending birthday cards to everybody on staff, as well as their partners and their children.
I was living in Queens when I got my first birthday card from Myron. I moved to Brooklyn and then Manhattan, and the birthday cards kept arriving -- always on the right date.
I left the Post and moved to another Manhattan apartment. He tracked me down. It was actually a little scary.
Then I moved to London. No way he finds me here, I told myself.
On my birthday a British postal worker pulled up to the house on his red bicycle and handed me a card. The handwriting was unmistakable. Myron had done it again.
Apparently we can all say goodbye to the birthday card tradition.
"I have been telling everybody to sell their Hallmark stock," Myron informed me. "Those days are over."
I'm not sure I believe it. In fact, I'm going to write him and beg him to keep up the tradition.
I've got your address, Myron. There's no place to hide.
Charlie Carillo is a producer at "Inside Edition." His novels "Shepherd Avenue," "My Ride With Gus," "God Plays Favorites," "Found Money" and "The Man Who Killed Santa Claus: A Love Story" are available on Amazon Kindle for 99 cents.