Please, sit down. I’ve been on the air for almost 23 years, and I’ve had to do some tough monologues along the way, but this one is the hardest. Late last night, early this morning, we lost someone very special—someone far too young to go. I want to tell you about him.

In 1977, my family moved from Brooklyn to Las Vegas, buying a cookie-cutter house in Spring Valley. There were no trees, just stucco and dirt. That’s where I grew up, on Metallark Lane. Across the street and two houses over lived a boy named Cleto, though everyone called him Junior. From the moment he saw me riding my bike in boxing gloves, sunglasses, and a headband, he thought I was “special.” Not the ordinary kind of special—he thought I was extraordinary.

We became inseparable. Not just friends, but the kind of friends who begged to sleep over 33 nights in a row. Our days were filled with whiffle ball, Nerf football, dress-up adventures, backyard boxing matches that left us concussed, and mischievous schemes that included crank calls and homemade rap albums. Cleto had a warped secondhand pool table, and a natural talent for mischief. He taught me about life, about fun, about mistakes—and, yes, about sex, though much of that I later realized was dangerously wrong.

Cleo was wildly confident. He lost his virginity young, wore his hair like John Travolta, and sometimes wore a tie to school “just because.” He was a catcher in Little League, obsessed with bodybuilding despite our muppet-like frames, and loved to push boundaries in every way. As kids, we laughed harder than anyone else I’ve known, and we never tired of each other’s company.

Yet Cleo’s wild childhood belied the incredible man he became. He grew into a dedicated father, a loving husband to Lori, and a man who never missed a day of work. Music was his life. A child prodigy on the saxophone, he learned from his father, Cleto Sr., who had given up a promising music career to be present for his family. Together, father and son revived that dream. Cleo’s talent led him to play for big names like Paula Abdul, Luis Miguel, Mark Anthony, and Philip Bailey, yet he remained humble, grounded, and generous with his time and heart.

When I got my talk show in 2002, there was only one choice for the band leader: Cleto. And not just him—his father, too. Together, they formed the core of a band that would accompany me for 23 years, performing daily, sharing their gift with audiences everywhere. They were extraordinary musicians, but more than that, they were family. Cleto Jr. and Sr., along with his wife Sylvia, became like a second set of parents to me, always supportive, always loving.

Cleo’s life was also full of joy and humor. He loved to moon people, play practical jokes, and create laughter wherever he went. He adored his wife and children, Jesse and Cruz, and he lived for the people he loved. He was the godfather to my son, Kevin, and a steadfast friend through every stage of life, always humble, generous, and full of love.

Today, my heart aches for the loss of Cleto Escobido Jr. He passed early this morning, Veterans Day, on what would have been his dear uncle Frank’s birthday. Even in sorrow, I am grateful—for the privilege of knowing him, for the adventures we shared, for the love he gave so freely. He taught me, above all, to cherish friends, family, and the fleeting joy of life.

I want to thank the doctors and nurses at UCLA Medical Center, the team at Sherman Oaks Hospital, his friends, neighbors, my family, and most importantly, Cleto’s parents, Cleto and Sylvia, for sharing him with all of us. Cherish your friends—they are not here forever.

And for a final memory of him, I know Cleto would want us to laugh tonight, to remember Eddie Murphy, and to celebrate the life of a man who truly lived it. Rest well, my friend.