I’ve met very few people in my life that I would categorize as a “writer.” There are those who are clever at turning a phrase and those who make their living via the written word. But so very few for whom writing is their passion of passions. Pat was one such person. He lived to write. Unfortunately he didn’t write to live as there was little market for his style. Satire and parody don’t really sell outside the Entertainment Industry. And, living in the small town we did, there certainly wasn’t much of the way of entertainment or industry. But that really didn’t matter. Pat spent most of his waking hours writing or thinking about writing. He was always in search of the next great story to tell. And tell it he did with a zest I’ve encountered from few others. But, as sharp and quick-witted as he was at writing, he was exactly the opposite physically. He was frail. Perhaps due to living at, or maybe just below the poverty line. Perhaps because sleeping and eating just couldn’t compete with writing.
I met Pat in a Radio Theater class. We had to produce radio programs and he was the most prolific. Indeed, his stuff left ours in the dust, in both quantity and quality. Yet he never judged anyone else’s writing. He was his own worst critic and was constantly striving to break the boundaries of current comedy writing. Over the course of the class, we became close. He felt comfortable enough to share some of his writings with me. And I tried like hell to come anywhere close to his expertise in converting thoughts to words.
Another thing about Pat was the fact that he wrote all of his stuff on a beat-up old portable typewriter. I realize some of you haven’t seen one or have absolutely no idea what that is. It’s what we all used “back in the day.” The typewriter was a mechanical device that enabled one to type a page, one letter at a time. Striking a key moved a mechanical arm with a head containing the corresponding letter. There was a ribbon of ink that the head would strike and transfer the image of the letter to the paper. It’s hard to believe of a time before the personal computer and word processing. But that’s how Pat created. And he loved that typewriter. I think it was his one prized possession. Over the course of our friendship, I got to know Pat and his typewriter very intimately.
It was the time when he was kicked out of his apartment. I never knew how he came up with the money he had but it had run out and he was looking at living on the street. My roommate, the owner of the house from which I rented a room, was on vacation. So I invited Pat to stay with me. He wouldn’t hear of it at first. He never wanted to rely on anyone or put anyone out. I was pretty sure my roommate wouldn’t mind and I persisted. Pat accepted but only on the condition that he stay in the garage and leave as soon as it was financially possible. I agreed and Pat set up camp in the garage. He had a couch, a lamp and, a side table with his beloved typewriter. Now I know that California winters can’t compete with those back east, but it still gets pretty cold in a garage with no insulation. Pat would type late into the night with a jacket and gloves with “half fingers,” the only barriers between him and the elements. I don’t know when he went to bed. I’d hear the typewriter going when I did. And I’d hear it again upon awakening. I’d try to encourage him to move into the house and he always insisted on staying in the garage. And that he’d leave as soon as he was able. Things such as they were, went along swimmingly until my roommate returned from vacation.
Imagine pulling into your driveway late at night after a long trip home. All you want to do is get into the house and your nice warm bed. You click the remote for the automatic garage door opener. And, as the door opens, your headlights illuminate a couch, and a dark hooded figure huddled over a typewriter. I think Pat acknowledged my roommate’s existence, most likely with a grunt, and it was back to typing. I can’t really remember how I explained my way out of that one but, to my roommate’s credit; he was only concerned about why Pat chose the garage instead of the spare room.
But as I mentioned, Pat was a frail soul. One that somehow didn’t seem to fit into the ways of the world. He tried as best he could to make his way but always seemed to come up short. I had moved away but kept in touch through friends. It was with great sorrow that I heard that Pat had been out riding his bike on a country road and collapsed. All efforts to revive him failed and so the last chapter of his life had come to a close. It was certainly not the way he would have written his demise. And, it makes me sad to think of him passing without the friends who believed in him and loved him, there by his side.
I’d like to believe he’s somewhere where he can read this. I can see him turning up his nose and accusing me of “spewing sentimental swill.” And that’s okay. Writing comes from the heart and Pat’s was just a bit too big to be constrained by his frail body. Indeed it lived, thrived actually, in words so lovingly created, stamped out one letter at a time.
Copy & paste to friend: (Click inside box; Ctrl + C to copy; Ctrl + V to paste)
|
|
read more blogs!
|