Remembering Reed Geritz: 'He loved everyone and made sure we all knew it'

It's 3 a.m., and Reed McNally Geritz's phone rings at the side of his bed. Gritty eyed and barely asleep, having rolled into the sack just an hour earlier, he reaches for his phone.

A friend needs a ride to the airport, soon, to catch a last-minute flight at dawn.

Geritz smiles to himself, makes a few gentle teases, "WTF, man!" "Are you kidding me?"

And then it's quick: "On my way."

The ride to the airport is smooth in the early morning darkness, and congenial, with warm chatter and a playlist sing-along.

"He would absolutely be there," said Shannen Casey, who described the airport scenario and was one of many close friends of Geritz, who was found dead at 7 a.m. April 30 slumped in bushes off the sidewalk near Acton and Carleton streets. He was 37.

His sudden death stunned a community of friends and family.

Geritz, they said in phone and email conversations with The Scanner, was fun-loving, friendly, silly, playful, spontaneous. But above all, echoed many, he was big-hearted.

Big-hearted in his actions, for one person or the world, caring and generous. Matching his big stature and big smile.

"You had never met a more genuinely nice, kind person who so earnestly made the effort to be a good ally to all — while still being an absolute, ridiculous, goofy dork," said Alissa Magrill, who worked with Geritz at the now-closed Berkeley karaoke bar Nick's Lounge for many years.

"He always lent an ear, a shoulder to cry on, and always wanted you to know he had your back," she said. "He loved everyone and made sure we all knew it."

Reed McNally Geritz: A life in Berkeley

Geritz's cause of death isn't known yet, the coroner's office said. Those reports take months to complete.

His family, gutted by his death, said Geritz had heart issues, with a problem called aortic dissection, a tear in his aorta, which required emergency surgery in 2021.

He'd modified some activities since then, a little less pick-up basketball, shorter night runs through the city, his brother Julian Geritz said.

But he didn't talk much about his heart condition, even to family. "He didn't want us to worry," said Tricia Geritz, his sister.

Geritz grew up in a close-knit family in north-central Berkeley with Tricia, brothers Julian and Jason, their mother Sheila and father Marc. He went to St. Jerome's Catholic School in El Cerrito, then Berkeley High.

Sheila Geritz, a retired schoolteacher, lives in Richmond, as does Tricia, also a public school teacher. Julian, who works at REI, still lives in Berkeley.

Marc lives in Twain Harte, a mountain town in Tuolumne County, following a divorce. A bunch of cousins, aunts, uncles, nieces and nephews are in the mix.

Losing Geritz carries an added punch of anguish to his family. His older brother Jason died in 2014 of suicide at age 29. He'd suffered from mental illness.

"The second brother," Tricia said, breaking into tears.

"It's especially painful that this is not the first, but the second time," said Julian, reflecting on the feelings of their mother, losing two kids.

At the time of his death, Geritz worked evening shifts as a lab tech at Sutter Hospital, and as a playground supervisor at Ruth Acty Elementary School on Acton Street by day.

He was a man who didn't need much down time, drawn by a range of activities.

Geritz's work history was rich, with jobs at several Berkeley bars and restaurants.

In addition to Nick's Lounge, there was Jupiter, Joshu-Ya Brasserie and the former Walker's Pie Shop in Albany. He also did a stint at REI and was a lab assistant at Renegade Bio in Berkeley.

He was also taking classes at Berkeley City College, with an eye on healthcare.

At each twist of his life, he gained friends — best friends — and kept the old.

"He was kind and warm and passionate about human rights and equity and justice. He loved so big, so so big. He had the best smile, it invited you in and held you as a friend, even if you'd just met," said Chandra Krinsky, who worked with Geritz at Renegade Bio and was at Berkeley High with him.

"He hugged everyone," his mother Sheila said.

Geritz could be hard on himself, people said, in spite of his ability to connect. He wanted to make a difference in fighting injustices, improving lives, and never felt worthy, questioning his impact.

Yet, every day he was doing just this, said those touched by his life.

He was "truly the best of us," Casey said. "He made any and everyone feel loved and worthy and cared for. One thing we can all learn from Reed is how important it is to be there for people you know, and even people you don't."

Casey and Geritz went to a lot of protests together, most recently in support of Palestine. "When it comes to activism, I think Reed understood how important it was to just be there, to bear witness," she said.

People were Geritz's sustenance. The blood of his big, passionate universe of life.

Sports, music, travel, camping. Bring it on. This was his way, family and friends said. Geritz was a huge Raiders fan, decked out in gear, going to games near and far.

"One thing we can all learn from Reed is how important it is to be there for people you know, and even people you don't."

Quick to the karaoke mic. Specialties included "Jackson" by Johnny Cash and June Carter and "The Bare Necessities" from "The Jungle Book."

Europe on a budget. Fantasy football (two leagues). Poker nights. Hyphy dance.

"He was enigmatic, charming, funny and down to do anything. He was the first person to RSVP to a get-together and likely the last person to leave," Krinsky said.

Geritz liked to record gatherings, said another close friend, Noelle, who worked with him at Jupiter and Nick's.

"He'd be dancing while recording, trying to capture every memory. I called this his 'Dad vibes.' It was both so hilarious and warm-hearted. I'd be like 'Daaad, stop embarrassing us!' and he'd reply, 'Just making sure you kids are having good clean fun!'"

Noelle didn't have a car and could always count on Geritz for help with rides when they shared a shift, she said: "He made sure I got home safe multiple times a week."

"If you wanted to do something and you needed someone to do it with, Reed would go."

Geritz helped her pay unexpected vet bills. And he was the first person to call when her dog Honi died, which happened to be on his birthday, Noelle said, and listened to her sobs.

He bought her a ticket to see "Hamilton" with his family, because she'd never seen a musical. They were gym buddies, Game of Thrones nerds, pho enthusiasts, activists, she said.

She called him her "beloved safe human." And her best friend.

"Reed would get excited when other people were getting excited," his sister Tricia said. "If you wanted to do something and you needed someone to do it with, Reed would go."

She reflected: "He really packed a lot into 37 years. More than people who live to 100."

"You don't know what could have happened"

Geritz, who lived on Derby Street in South Berkeley, appears to have died while walking home from a neighborhood bar, one of his regular hangouts, family said.

According to witnesses who spoke to the Berkeley police, he was seen face down in the bushes off the sidewalk on the night of April 29. No one called police until the next day.

The witnesses told officers they thought they heard him snoring. They weren't sure if they should do anything.

This lapse of time is bitter for Geritz's family, they said.

Without a coroner's findings, it's impossible to know why he died.

It's left them haunted by "what ifs." What if he could have been saved if someone had called sooner?

"You don't know what could have happened," sister Tricia said, saying it felt "wrong" and "disturbing."

The family will never have the reassurance that could have come from doctors or paramedics saying, "we tried everything," she said.

It adds insult to injury, said brother Julian.

"It's not something Reed would have done," Julian continued. "He would have done anything he could."

Berkeley Police Lt. Matt McGee said a general best practice, when seeing someone in public who appears passed out or slumped or dazed, is to call police at 911 or the non-emergency number (510-981-5900) so they can be assessed by someone with training.

Call from a safe distance if someone's behavior is concerning, he said.

McGee acknowledges that it's not easy to know someone's state, if they need help or what to do. So, he said, let professionals take over.

"We as a police department have access to a variety of tools," he said. And are trained in using them. This includes calling in the Mobile Crisis Team as needed.

Police need people to share what they see, McGee said: "They're the eyes and ears of the community."

Meanwhile, more than 300 people attended Geritz's memorial this month in Richmond, sharing their grief and showering him with love.

"You said you just hoped you did something people would think fondly of; that your actions were insignificant in a world of terror and hopelessness, so you didn't think you really did anything of importance," Krinsky wrote, in a letter to Reed after she learned he had died.

"I'd always argue with you, pushing back against your insistence and trying to convey how you were seen in the world. Trying so hard to remind you that you were worthy and important, that you were adored, that you brought joy and levity and were just goddamned fun to be around."

A fundraiser to help with funeral costs, and support donations to causes Geritz valued, has raised nearly $16,000.