“Hey, Lanning, you look younger every time I see you.”
I look up and see an older gentleman smiling down at me. In a daze from typing a story, I don’t recognize him at first. As my mind clears, I do.
“Dr. Malone,” I say, “it’s so good to see you.”
I don’t know if he wants me to say he looks younger. He doesn’t. He appeared old for his age when I took classes from him at U.H. back in the ‘80s
Sitting down opposite me, he says, “You know I have a copy of your dissertation on the shelf above my bed. I still take it down from time to time and dip into your stories.”
My dissertation is a collection of 53 stories I wrote back in the ‘80s. Mine was the second dissertation, and the first creative dissertation, of the U.H. Mānoa English Department. I was part of the first group of 6 admitted to the brand-new Ph.D. program back in 1987.
“I’m sorry you have to subject yourself to that,” I say, smiling as though I’m joking. I’m not. Once I’ve finished a story, it’s like a kid I’ve sent out into the world. Fatherless, it wanders around, searching for a reader who’ll breathe life into it. If a story of mine is really old, it’s usually dead to me. Way beyond resuscitation. Still, it is nice to know someone is reading me at all. With most writers, in this world now of self-publishing, you’re lucky if anyone reads you at all.”
“Why do you say that every time I mention it?” he asks. “I think some of those stories are great.”
I was thinking a similar thought. Whenever I run into Dr. Malone, maybe every three years or so, he always leads with the line about my dissertation sitting above his bed.
“Because they’re so old,” I say. “And I’m not sure I’d like them anymore. Probably not.”
“That’s a bunch of shibai,” he says. His wife is Japanese. I wonder if he knows that word because she’s always using it with him.
Laughing, I say, “Okay, hey, I appreciate you appreciating me. You may be the only reader I have in the world.”
He laughs. “I don’t believe that. I bet there’s at least one more out there. Maybe two.”
Dr. Malone, one of the reasons I loved his classes so much, was because of his sense of humor. Any class, from preschool through grad school, can live or die depending on whether the teacher has the knack of injecting humor into it.
“So you’re retired now, right?” he asks.
“Yes, almost eight years.”
“I bet you think it’s the best job you ever had,” he says, his eyes twinkling. “And the best boss ever,” he adds.
I’ve had great jobs and terrific bosses, but I know what he means.
“I love it, Dr. Malone. To have all the time in the world to write, it’s like a dream job. If I could get paid, that would be gravy.”
“Those pensions coming it when there’s no work to do can set you free,” he says. “Just ask my wife.”
Now, I think this might be another joke, but because he doesn’t laugh when he says it, and because I don’t quite get the funny of it, I say, “Sorry? How’s that?”
His face turns up slightly as if he’s examining either the ceiling or an imagined heaven.
“She’s free now,” he says. “Her retirement set her free.”
I still don’t quite understand him. Nodding as if I agree seems the best route as he returns his attention to me.
“Between Social Security and her State pension, my wife had more than enough to take off.”
Getting the feeling he means she left him, not by dying but by desertion, I choose not to jump into any conversation about this. Nodding still seems to be the best thing. With absolutely no smiling. Deadpan seems smart.
“I do miss her,” he says.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
He laughs again. “Don’t be sorry, Lanning. Hey, write about that. Maybe it’ll make a good story.
I suppose it could, although what’s happened with his wife is up in the air.
Now I nod. “Okay, one of these days maybe I will.”
“You still have my email address?”
“I have your U.H. one.”
“Yes. Good. If you write the story, send me a copy. I’ll print it out and keep it with your dissertation. That way I can read it from time to time, too.”
“Yes, right, okay. I’ll do that.” Read about his wife leaving him. Over and over again? Geez, brutal stuff if he misses her that much.
Dr. Malone stands and extends his hand. “Always good to see you,” he says.
I get up, too, and shake his hand. “You too,” I say. “Running into you always makes me feel good about my writing. It being so close to you and all.”
“Right there above my bed,” he says.
He heads off, and I watch him go. Then a woman, Caucasian, comes up alongside him and takes his hand. Together they disappear in the distance, and I begin to type again.
Lanning Lee 