There was something very comfortably familiar about the writer, a total stranger who fate could not have just randomly put in my path to throw me a curve for no particular reason.
With my full and undivided attention, as I rarely provide for any cause or reason, I took in and hung on to every single one of his well chosen, humorous words that told his personal and professional life stories as though I were interviewing him for a full length media article or writing his most captivating biography.
Something about the quick witted writer readily drew me in, drew me to him and him to me. The dazzling chemistry between us took off instantly with quite an intriguing passion and intensity. We could talk and laugh for hours and days without running out of things to say or discuss with one another. There was no looking back until I was in well over my head and wished I had never met him, instead only to wish a minute later that I had known him all my life.
Sometimes writers get so caught up in the mystique of being a writer that quirky traits become their trademark, and whatever personality they had before success just disappears to all but their closest and most trusted friends. That’s what must have happened to the writer, I suspected the first time that he and I met.
It had been a long time since he talked candidly about himself instead of everything in the political or sociological world that he wrote about - or the tens of thousands of newspaper readers who sometimes daily contacted him to agree or disagree with what he wrote in his syndicated columns. He was the kind of writer who people either loved or hated to read, but read, nonetheless, just to see what was on his clever mind that particular day.
At times, his commentary or interviews brought him much personal attention that he claimed to dislike. He pretended to growl and despise any controversy that threw him into the public spotlight instead of his subject whom he wrote about often critically of, but sometimes so favorably of, in his columns.
He sometimes became the story in the news for more than just a day or two after taking less popular stands on different economical, moral or political issues or pointing out hypocrisies in favorite political candidates.
When he was characterized by news makers or fellow media writers as being aggressive, he was personally insulted, wounded and said so to those in his inner circle. The typically quiet, polite, reserved, funny man had absolutely no clue just how outright tough and ruthless he could be with some interviewees who tried to evade answering him, hide unflattering answers or cover up the truth to a gnawing situation at hand.
In one instance where he was depicted as being especially ruthless, he shook his head and pointed to the television and a film clip showing him calmly but repeatedly asking the same question to a political candidate who definitely skirted the truth with such vague answers that other media reps might have accepted. Not this guy.
“I don’t understand why they call me aggressive. That’s the most ironic and funniest thing to me,” he said of that particular incident when he didn’t back down with his question at that presidential convention.
I took it all in and just laughed. He truly did not realize at all just how tough he became when he went to work, even when he saw his persistent style and lack of hesitation to continue to ask the difficult questions captured on video.
No matter what the wannabe and has been politicians said publically about his views, they knew that the writer was so perceptively wise and right when he editorialized about what their sometimes floundering campaigns needed to do to pull off election victories or redeem themselves for another stay in office.
Likewise, the ones in office who seemed to forget about broken promises made to the pubic were uneasy in his presence and were known to turn and walk quickly in the opposite direction to avoid crossing his oncoming path. They knew he was so sure to see through their spin on things and would list all of the weaknesses in their latest economic growth plans that think tanks and expensive consultants tagged as being brilliant. The smarter ones tried to stay on his good side and sometimes called him before announcing the scheduling of a press conference, no doubt, to get free and excellent political advice. He enjoyed that role more than he was willing to admit.
“Why don’t you just get it over with and be a political consultant or run for political office yourself?” I asked him once when he lamented that none of the political party favorite sons seemed to understand or live up to their party’s expectations. His response was to give me a horrified look as though I falsely accused him of treason or murder.
“You can’t be serious!” he exclaimed. “Me...run for office?”
“Sure, why not? You seem to be a natural. Every time you take on the big boys, your readers write in with overwhelming support because they know you’re no nonsense and are trying to save their tax dollars. They know you always have a better alternative,” I reasoned.
“Are you kidding? I’m a writer, not a politician. God, I would be assassinated in a week!” he said with a big smile.
“By your own party, no doubt, too!” I had to add to tease him, especially given that he held a long list of phone calls he had to return to politicians unhappy with his published report card on their performances in public office.
“My dear, I fear chances are good that you’ll be assassinated whether you run for office of not!” I said putting on my coat and kissing him goodbye while he started returning the calls. Watching each other as I walked away, we laughed together about his love-hate relationship with politics.
“You get me, don’t you?” he asked.
“Sure, you put them down in print to embarrass them miserably so that they will become better politicians and public servants,” I answered.
“Yes! By God, you get me!” he exclaimed with his arms up, so pleased with both of us as he watched me grab my suitcase and disappear out his door.
And get the writer, I surely did!
It wasn’t long before I got a strong case of him in my heart and couldn’t wait until our next contact.
When he traveled around the world, I missed him dearly and counted the days till he returned. When he went to parts of the world that are no longer safe zones because of terrorists, I worried till he was through there and back on friendlier soil. Continue