I wrote this essay in 2005. I've made a few revisions, such as updating the timeline, to avoid any confusion. It's a true story and the lessons learned have stayed with me all these years.
I knew Bob only briefly, toward the end of his life. It was nearly 50 years ago. We were introduced by a high school teacher who had a downstairs apartment in the rear of the small town's hotel. Bob's mother owned the hotel and, when I got to know him, he was living in a suite of rooms on the second floor.
Bob invited me up one evening, shortly after we met, and I went. He was a rangy fellow with longish gray hair and his wayward beard was scraggly. His face seemed eons older than its actual middle-aged years and was lined with untold history. There was a look of sheepish withdrawal in his darting, red-ringed eyes. Bob put you in the mind of a scary, misfit Apostle.
When I arrived, I was instantly impressed with what he had done with the
place. Single-handedly, Bob had gutted two or three of the old hotel's
rooms and remodeled them, having fashioned for himself a quaint,
modernized apartment that defied the hotel's outward aging appearance.
He waved off my praise with embarrassment, quickly dismissing the quality of his craftsmanship.
But I knew Bob had not invited me up for a grand tour of his refurbished bachelor's quarters. Aware of his penchant for whisky, I thought perhaps he might offer me a drink, but there was no alcohol immediately in sight. What did catch my eye astounded me.
It's the demons, such as a thirst for booze, that marks a man for life. And for death. Especially in a small town. It's like a shroud that he wears and it's all anybody knows him for.
It's amazing what you might find when the veil is lifted and the man's deeper secrets are laid bare.
On the floor of Bob's sitting room were piles of paperback books.These were the novels that had sat a long time without selling, on the book rack of the drug store just across the alley. They were destined for the trash bin, with the covers ripped off as retailers did in those days. But Bob had dug them out and brought them up to his apartment to give them a good read first.
"I know you like books," he said to me. "If you want to go through them and pick out a few to take home, feel free."
"Yes, I love to read, Bob." I wanted to add, "I had no idea you were a
reader," but I didn't, fearful the remark would somehow come off as
arrogant and demeaning.
After we discussed books for awhile, he asked me about my writing. Our
mutual friend had told Bob that I was pursuing a writing career.
Now he wanted to hear about my craftsmanship.
I told him that I had been writing since I was 10 years old and wrote a novel during my junior year in high school, which at that time had been only a couple of years ago. While success had been unsurprisingly elusive at that age, I continued to write because, well, that's what writers do. It's something that sets fire to your blood and drives you down winding, unfamiliar roads with the power of a turbo engine.
Like whisky, I thought to myself, sadly studying this new friend who was thin as a rail with yellow, dying eyes.
Bob excused himself and wandered into another room. When he returned, he was holding a sheaf of ragged type-written pages. He seemed to be pondering his next move, then awkwardly handed the pages to me.
"I've done some writing myself over the years," he said. "I wondered if you'd like to read this and see what you think."
It was a short story. Curious, I began reading while Bob busied himself in another room. I was momentarily distracted by a glass clanging against a countertop and ice cubes dropping one on top of the other, like shovelfuls of dirt into a grave.
Back to his story, I was overwhelmed by Bob's talent. He had poured words onto the pages in perfect measure. And you knew those words had made the trip all the way from some valley deep inside his heart. The man was truly a writer.
When I had finished, I told him that the story was magnificent. But that embarrassed him, too. Writing was just something he liked to do, he told me. And when I left later that evening, I was certain it was something he'd never do again.
The last time I saw Bob was just a short time later. His mother was in the hospital, dying.
I had gone to the hotel to visit him. Bob was numb, already grieving, knowing that his mother's life would be over soon. Sadly, Bob was dying, too.
He had cancer. And on this evening, he had whisky. He was mixing it in a glass with milk, the milk to help soften the blow when the whisky splashed into his cancerous stomach.
He was inconsolable. Feeling like I was in the way, I offered my sympathy and departed.
Bob's mother died that night. Not long after, Bob passed away, too.
I'm sure he never intended to teach me any lessons. As he was fading
from life, he was only looking for a friend to share his interest in
reading and writing. I so wished he'd crossed my path sooner.
Nevertheless I learned something in that short time. It had to do with those piles of paperback books, with the front covers missing. I discovered that the cover really means nothing. The heart of the book is within. If we keep turning pages, it can be truly amazing what we discover.
Copyright 2005 by Wendel Potter
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