And I'd like to introduce our first reader, who
will introduce the rest, Buzz Poverman.
Hi.
You know, I'm happy, and honored that I can do this for Steve.
And I just have a few thoughts I'd like to read.
It was from a mutual friend that I first
heard Steve had been taken to the hospital
by ambulance the night before.
More news came back quickly and unhappily in the next few days,
that Steve had lung cancer, and that perhaps it had spread,
And then that he was home.
As I was walking over to see him, I thought,
what can I possibly say to console him?
When I stepped into his bedroom, Steve gave me an easy smile,
and with that smile, I felt better.
I took his hand, Hey, man, whatever truth had always
been there, was still there.
No need for poses or pretense.
It was not different than if I had looked into his office
to find him working on a poem, his desk sprinkled
with yellow post-it notes.
A little news, some gossip, a few jokes, talk about writing.
A truth between two friends that could hold up.
Over the next few days, I saw this exchange
between every person who visited Steve.
No self-pity from Steve.
No fear or desperation, just this gratitude and pleasure
that his friends were there to see him,
along with an astonishing ease and grace.
Steve was always interested first and foremost,
in you, the other person.
That of course was his blessing.
Twice in those last days, Steve told me, word for word,
the same story, which was simply this.
When his father was on his deathbed in the hospital,
Steve and his older brother went to see him.
His father introduced them to the nurse,
this is my good son, Jerry, and this is my bad son, Steve.
Each time he told it, he had the same look
on his face, Sullen anger, resignation.
Everyone who knew Steve knew he smoked,
not so secretly in his office.
Several times I was presumptuous enough
to say, OK, Steve, enough.
Stop now.
Steve allowed me my indiscretion.
Once he said, I know I'm going to have
to pay for this someday, but I like to smoke.
I'm kind of looking at you now, Steve,
as I offer this next thought, is this OK?
Over time, I came to believe that if whatever had failed
between Steve and his father had taken a different turn, if he
too could have been the good son,
was there room for a second good son in that family script?
Then he wouldn't have needed to fill himself up with something
as poisonous as smoke.
Might have known he was loved, when
he needed to reach down inside for something to carry him
forward.
Might have lived on.
I'm listening for a few words back from Steve on this.
That he might have entertained that conjecture or scoff at it.
Cut it Steve?
I think it might be true enough for me to offer it.
As it was, in the telling of a story about being the bad son,
I knew he still ached for something out there,
something lost.
It was the look on his face that said it as much as the words,
I think about Sartre writing on Genet who early in childhood,
labeled bad, a thief, took on the role.
Oh, I'm bad am I?
If I'm bad, then I'll show you bad.
I believe that Steve embraced his assignment, bad son,
going against the grain when the situation called
for the polite smile.
That it had been Steve's way of surviving, of staying
connected to himself, and to others.
Perhaps the common currency of Steve's being bad,
was to say the forbidden thing.
I saw him do this on many occasions.
One example will serve.
I ran into a former student of mine
at a writer's conference, who told me that she had just
started a new love affair.
She seemed elated about it, hopeful.
Steve didn't know her, but simply asked,
is he good in bed?
Startled, she did a double take.
From there, Steve joined the conversation.
Bad boy?
Maybe on the face of it, but I believe
that Steve's real purpose was to break down the artifice
and barriers between people.
If Someone tells you he or she has a new lover,
we might wonder, good in bed?
We don't ask.
Steve asked.
You take a chance, risk looking bad, to make a real connection.
My litmus test is that I never saw Steve hurt anyone.
Nor did I ever hear anything mean
or hurtful or cruel from him.
On the contrary, Steve had this amazing caress in his voice,
for people, for the world.
It was a lovers voice, a truth teller's voice.
The irony is that Steve's bad boy
was the kindest, the gentlest, the most tender of men.
Whenever I saw Steve at school, he'd say, give me a hug.
Or else he'd just hug me, which made
me feel as I had at earlier times in my life,
as a teenager, a student, a time when
you had a buddy, who in some wordless way
got something heart to heart about you,
had your back when push came to shove.
Steve, this is like the afternoon
I was walking over to your place and wondering
what I could possibly say, but I found
we could go right on from where we'd always been.
I see you walking toward me, I hear you say, give me a hug.
Steve, I give you a hug.