What Would You Have to Say, Stephen

Just an update regarding my last post. I did finish The Sweet Girl (but not until this morning), but it did NOT surpass Shadow People in word count. Came about two hundred words short.

My friend Stephen was an artist. He could draw, he could paint, he could sculpt. What he wasn't good at was telling stories. Not on paper anyway. Just to sit and talk he did fine. He had a wonderfully vivid imagination.

Stephen was a gentle sort. I cannot remember a single instance where Stephen was ever cruel, or deliberately hurt anyone. His humor could be acerbic, and sometimes people did feel bad. But when Stephen realized he had hurt feelings he would take steps to undo the damage he had caused.

He was an honest person. Gentle. Honest. Kind. What wonderful attributes to possess.

And so it was with great surprise when one day he shows up at my house all depressed. Turns out he had gone to a local Target store with Chris, and Chris had convinced Stephen to do something Stephen had never done before in his life: steal.

I forget what it was he stole. I think it was a piece of fishing tackle. Anyway, it had taken Chris an inordinate amount of time and effort to convince Stephen to take the thing. All of this back and forth debate had attracted the attention of the store's security. So of course when Chris and Stephen left the store they were caught, apprehended, and brought to the local police station where they were booked.

The incident left a lasting impression of Stephen, and it showed in some of his ad-lib comments. He had a great gift for exaggeration and sarcasm. He liked to tell stories of the poor slob who stole a pack of gum and ran out of the store, only to be gunned down by a 37-member S.W.A.T. force. Then he would pose as the dead criminal, laying spread out and holding the cheap piece of swag, and say, "Was it worth it?"

It probably isn't funny at all to read, but when I see and hear him in my mind I can't help but laugh out loud.

And do you know the funny thing about it? That was the only time Stephen ever shop-lifted. His younger brother did it all the time. And never got caught. The truth is, I always felt Stephen was lucky because he was caught, and I often told him so.

Exaggeration and sarcasm was how Stephen dealt with all of his disappointments.

He rode motorcycles. Harley-Davidson models. Back in the 70s Harley-Davidson wasn't doing so well. There weren't many shops around. Here in Minnesota the only shop Stephen knew of was thirty miles away.

One summer in June, Stephen was driven off the road by a jerk in a pickup truck. Stephen always referred to drivers of pickup trucks as "hockey pucks". It was a term he picked up from his motorcycle driving instructor. But in driving off the road Stephen's motorcycle was damaged. Two of the spokes on his front wheel snapped. Now he probably could have continued to ride his bike with the missing spokes, but he felt it was too dangerous to risk. So he called the Harley-Davidson shop and ordered the spokes. (They didn't have any in stock at the time.) He waited the stated four weeks and borrowed his father's car to pick up his spokes. They weren't there.

Two weeks later he asked me to drive him. I agreed.

He was depressed the entire way there. Calling the store didn't seem to work as they seldom answered the telephone. (He may have actually gone to the store and placed his order in the first place.) When we reached the store he had to wait about fifteen minutes before anyone would treat with him. When they did they informed him the spokes still had not arrived I thought Stephen was going to break down and cry. Then he got angry. Angrier than I had ever seen him.

When we got back home he wanted to do an audio skit. These were all ad-lib so I had no idea what was on his mind. He began by pretending he had come in to the Harley-Davidson shop. I was to be the clerk.

ME: May I help you?

STEPHEN: Yes. I was here about - three years ago to order a spokes for a motorcycle wheel.

That was Stephen. I still smile to think about him. He made me laugh. Often when I desperately needed to find humor in my life.

I would like to believe that, were he alive and with me now, he would be pleased with the writing I have been accomplishing. He wouldn't read any of it, but he would be pleased. I know I am.