Paul
I've found that we have a pretty brief window in our lives to make lifelong friends. The best time for it happens when we are young, up to high school. But once we leave school, and move on to adult responsibilities, a whole host of defenses spring up that prevent us from really opening up to other people the way we did when we were kids.
I met someone, however, long after I had left high school, who was one of the coolest people I have ever met. I didn't know him for that long -- maybe a year or two -- but in the time I knew him, we became extremely close, kindred spirits.
I was in my mid-twenties, living in my mother's house, and writing. I didn't have a job, because I wanted to pursue writing, and she was making my life miserable about it. My time was spent fighting with her about not having a regular job, and writing. That's what I did. One day I saw an ad for a small literary magazine in a local paper. I started submitting stories to them, and I became a regular contributor. After a couple of years of this, the phone rang one day. I picked it up and a voice on the other end asked, "Is this Emily?" "Yeah," I said, puzzled. "Hi, my name's Paul, I saw a story of yours in Authors [the magazine I wrote for], and I thought it was really good. I'm a writer too."
That started our relationship. At first, I thought he was just a nutcase, or out to get in my pants. That's the only reason any guy would want to talk to me, back then. But he assured me that neither was the case. He was in his twenties as well, married, with a young daughter. He and his wife had married very young; she'd been pregnant with their daughter and they'd gotten married barely past their teens. He'd had a troubled life. He told me about his dad being an alcoholic, beating his mother, beating him and his brother, being carted off to jail numerous times. He'd been in jail himself. When he was a teenager, "I was a real badass," he told me. But he had just recently turned his whole life around. He'd stopped drinking and doing drugs, and he believed wholeheartedly in God. We talked about religion and God a lot, and writing. We talked on the phone for hours at a stretch. We had the writing in common. I wanted to be the next Margaret Atwood and he wanted to be the next Stephen King -- that's who his hero was. The publisher of the magazine we wrote for chuckled condescendingly when Paul told him this; he was the type of man who turned up his nose at anyone who read books by anyone other than Booker Prize Winners. Paul might have been unsophisticated; he hadn't finished high school and his grammar and spelling were terrible. But his stories pulsed with creativity and a touching sincerity. I thought he was wonderful, and I looked forward to his phone calls. We talked nearly every day when we first got to know each other, then our calls began to dwindle a little.
I guess I'd known him for a couple of years when I really started to lose touch with him. He'd met a guy at his daughter's school who was a computer whiz, and Paul started to lose interest in writing and become more interested in computer programming. I missed our marathon conversations about God and the creative process. He was slipping away from me, and I could feel it, but I knew there was nothing I could do about it. Soon, he began to tell me he'd started drinking again. There were problems with his wife and never enough money and he hated his job. He worked as a cook in restaurants and always complained about how his co-workers looked down on him.
One thing I remember vividly that he always used to tell me, even though he assured me he was not a religious fanatic: "The Bible is like a map for life. Follow what it says, and you'll never go wrong." It sounded strange coming from a confirmed alcoholic, ex-con, party-hardy guy. I remember once he also told me about a near-death experience he had, when he was tripping on LSD.
Anyway, we started to lose touch more and more. Finally we lost touch completely. I haven't heard from him since shortly after my daughter was born, about 6 years now. But I think about him quite a lot. I miss him awful. I hope he's okay, and I hope he's still trying to be the next Stephen King. He was such an awesome person.
I met someone, however, long after I had left high school, who was one of the coolest people I have ever met. I didn't know him for that long -- maybe a year or two -- but in the time I knew him, we became extremely close, kindred spirits.
I was in my mid-twenties, living in my mother's house, and writing. I didn't have a job, because I wanted to pursue writing, and she was making my life miserable about it. My time was spent fighting with her about not having a regular job, and writing. That's what I did. One day I saw an ad for a small literary magazine in a local paper. I started submitting stories to them, and I became a regular contributor. After a couple of years of this, the phone rang one day. I picked it up and a voice on the other end asked, "Is this Emily?" "Yeah," I said, puzzled. "Hi, my name's Paul, I saw a story of yours in Authors [the magazine I wrote for], and I thought it was really good. I'm a writer too."
That started our relationship. At first, I thought he was just a nutcase, or out to get in my pants. That's the only reason any guy would want to talk to me, back then. But he assured me that neither was the case. He was in his twenties as well, married, with a young daughter. He and his wife had married very young; she'd been pregnant with their daughter and they'd gotten married barely past their teens. He'd had a troubled life. He told me about his dad being an alcoholic, beating his mother, beating him and his brother, being carted off to jail numerous times. He'd been in jail himself. When he was a teenager, "I was a real badass," he told me. But he had just recently turned his whole life around. He'd stopped drinking and doing drugs, and he believed wholeheartedly in God. We talked about religion and God a lot, and writing. We talked on the phone for hours at a stretch. We had the writing in common. I wanted to be the next Margaret Atwood and he wanted to be the next Stephen King -- that's who his hero was. The publisher of the magazine we wrote for chuckled condescendingly when Paul told him this; he was the type of man who turned up his nose at anyone who read books by anyone other than Booker Prize Winners. Paul might have been unsophisticated; he hadn't finished high school and his grammar and spelling were terrible. But his stories pulsed with creativity and a touching sincerity. I thought he was wonderful, and I looked forward to his phone calls. We talked nearly every day when we first got to know each other, then our calls began to dwindle a little.
I guess I'd known him for a couple of years when I really started to lose touch with him. He'd met a guy at his daughter's school who was a computer whiz, and Paul started to lose interest in writing and become more interested in computer programming. I missed our marathon conversations about God and the creative process. He was slipping away from me, and I could feel it, but I knew there was nothing I could do about it. Soon, he began to tell me he'd started drinking again. There were problems with his wife and never enough money and he hated his job. He worked as a cook in restaurants and always complained about how his co-workers looked down on him.
One thing I remember vividly that he always used to tell me, even though he assured me he was not a religious fanatic: "The Bible is like a map for life. Follow what it says, and you'll never go wrong." It sounded strange coming from a confirmed alcoholic, ex-con, party-hardy guy. I remember once he also told me about a near-death experience he had, when he was tripping on LSD.
Anyway, we started to lose touch more and more. Finally we lost touch completely. I haven't heard from him since shortly after my daughter was born, about 6 years now. But I think about him quite a lot. I miss him awful. I hope he's okay, and I hope he's still trying to be the next Stephen King. He was such an awesome person.
posted by emily pound at 6:48 AM
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