About Bill

Bill is a friend of mine. Well, more of a mentor — kind of a book/life coach sort of thing — like the older brother I never had. Much older. A nudge, really.

Actually, we're more like colleagues in that we can always find something nice to say when we read each other's writing, but always too, add those little zingers: the bitter in bitter-sweet. Really, I guess, we're just these two guys who get together for coffee now and then. You know, the kind of grizzled old farts in John Deer hats and overalls who hang out all day in the window booth at the local greasy spoon, forever stirring mugs of tepid coffee, complaining that people just ain't no damned good, and how there hasn't been a decent president since Harry Truman? Except I always order a decaffeinated, nonfat cappuccino and Bill, well, Bill just drinks plain, unadventurous coffee and thinks there hasn't been a decent president since Kennedy. Sometimes I order a scone.

Well, that's not completely true either. We've gone to the movies a couple times. Bill magnanimously orders a giant tub of popcorn that he offers to share, but I notice he keeps it close to himself — so it won't fall, I imagine. That's OK. Who needs all those trans fats, and such. I'm already overdoing it on the scones.

Now that I think about it, we've shared several meals besides popcorn: Mexican, Thai, vaguely Middle Eastern. The first time I met him we had subway sandwiches at an appropriately named place. I don't remember the food, and I don't remember the words that were spoken except that what was said was always better than what was eaten. Life's like that.

So, Geez: You'd think I was dating this guy. I like the grizzled old guys in John Deer hats image better.

Oh. One last thing: He loans me books. I never return them. Behavioral modification is out of the question.

And he speaks French, a language I've always imagined was spoken through the nose without pronouncing half the letters. Say la vie, or however the hell it's spelled.

Bill'd know.