A funny thing about being human is, even though we know each of us will die one day, when death grabs the hand of someone we care for, it still comes as a shock.
Right now, it's 1:45 p.m. on Monday, Feb. 20, and I'm in shock. About an hour ago, I found out, in an email, that on Thurs., Feb. 16 Real Change vendor Robert Ellis Gordon died.
I hadn't known Robert that long. I only met him in late August 2011, when I interviewed him for Real Change ("Among the invisible people," RC, Sept. 7, 2011), following up on an idea from our then graphic designer. He'd told our editor one of our vendors was an author who had won an award, and that he might be good for a Q-and-A. Always intrigued by the lives of our vendors, I said I'd be happy to chat with him. Talking to him turned out to be one of the best half-hours I spent all last year.
First, there was his demeanor: Born in Massachusetts in 1954, Robert had a soft voice, almost inaudible at times, one that required you lean in close to catch what he said. His voice could fool you into thinking he was too gentle for this world, but he mixed gentleness with hard-edged progressive action: After going to Harvard for his undergrad degree, he got a master's in fiction writing at the University of Iowa, which, any dreaming-of-fame writer will tell you, is the best fiction program in the country. But instead of being drawn into the realm of NYC's literati, Robert wound up teaching writing to inmates in prisons here in Washington. He called prisoners some of the "invisible people," and by helping them find their voice, he found his calling: "The first day [in the prison], I was petrified. I had a roomful of murderers and rapists and robbers and what have you. The second day they had faces. The third day they had souls." He taught inmates for 11 years.
Then, there was his writing: Quite honestly, anyone should feel blessed to write just one decent book. But to pen one like "The Funhouse Mirror: Reflections on Prison," a portrait gallery of people on the inside? Man, that takes talent. It won a Washington State Book Award. Then he wrote "Humping Credenzas with the Late Bobby Kennedy: A Convict's True Account," a fantastical novella told in a jazzy rhythm about the assassinated Bobby being sent back to earth to work among the poor. It made me think Robert was a genius.
Third, there was his illness: I began to suspect, while talking to Robert last summer, that he was sick. He confessed he was: lupus. It slowed him down, forced him to use a cane. Eventually, he knew, he would die from complications from the autoimmune disease. But Robert saw the illness as a test. "I intend to embrace life," he said. "No matter what."
Finally, there was our friendship: After that initial chat, Robert told me he wanted to hang out, so we did. He could be a relentless pest, calling or emailing several times a day. At first, I wondered why he was so insistent, so I asked him. "I'm dying," he said. "I want to pass on what I have." For some reason, Robert chose me to receive his knowledge. So over the fall and into the winter, we had lunch several times. I went to his apartment in Ravenna and hung out and talked about books. He wanted to work with me, help me in my writing. Somehow I'd found a mentor.
But then I got busy. Projects, other friends and the holidays: They all consumed me. He lent me a copy of Mario Puzo's "The Godfather" and the annotated screenplay. I devoured them and planned to return them to him. But later, I told myself. When I'm not busy.
In mid-February, I returned from a vacation. I saw the books on my shelf and thought, "Hey, don't forget to give Robert those books." Then I wondered: "Why haven't I heard from him?" I knew that he was losing his sight, that his thoughts were increasingly scattered. I'd planned to call him sometime this week, to catch up. And...
Well, I missed him. But not really. I got to spend time with Robert these past few months. It was truly a gift. To think he's gone -- I still can't believe it. But that's life for you, fantasy versus reality. At least now, I'm reminded how precious life can be and what a treasure it is to have a good friend.
I owe that to Robert.