I meant to call Bill today.  Things happened, the call didn’t.

I remember the day I met him.  Bill belonged to a writer’s critique group in Ft. Worth called the Wild Bunch.  He wasn’t there that first Thursday night when I went to observe.   His car had sighed its last sigh and refused to budge another inch.  He recently moved to the outskirts of far north Dallas and there was no way for him to be with his writing friends — his family.  Since my day job takes me to Dallas on a frequent basis, it only made sense that I volunteer to pick him up after my business was completed the next Thursday and bring him home.

Thursdays are Bill.

I was late.  Traffic was heavy.  The road I traveled seemed endless; I began to suspect the Oklahoma border might be looming close ahead.  Perhaps I was lost.  The moment I decided to pull over and check the directions given to me, I saw the sign for Bill’s apartment complex.  I wandered the labyrinth of buildings searching for the correct number.  Climbing the stairs, I hesitantly rang the bell, unprepared for the whirlwind of energy and light that waited in the apartment beyond. 

After opening the door, Bill grabbed me to him and hugged me like a long-lost friend.  “I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you!” he exclaimed.  “Thank you so much for coming to get me.  I’ll be just a second. I’m all packed.  I can’t tell you how excited I am — I couldn’t be more excited if I were going to California.”

California.

I stood back and looked at him.  Bill had been ill.  He was painfully thin, all knees and elbows, with a gaunt face, and his gray hair pulled back neatly into a ponytail.  A free spirit.   His eyes sparkled.  His smile was as wide as the sky.  His enthusiasm was contagious.  Bill inhaled the world and wouldn’t let it go. 

We placed his suitcase in the trunk of my car, took our places in the front seat and headed west.  His gift to me that day was witnessing a sunset of indescribable beauty that I would have otherwise missed.  Billowy clouds were on fire in a sea of ever-changing hues of blue.  Aqua.  Turquoise.  Peach and persimmon streaked the sky.  Whispers of white trailed behind.  The heavens lived and breathed before us.  The dying day sinking into night.

That first night I met Bill, on our long ride west, beneath the flaming sky, we talked. And talked. We drove. We talked some more.  Of life and death.  Health and happiness.  Love found and lost.  Wealth diminished.  Dreams. His. Mine.  Of work unfinished.  Work began.   Of writing.  Always writing, writing, writing.  And time.

So little time.

Bill was married once.  Devoting his life to being the owner of a jewelry store, his hours had been so long, that he did not see his marriage dissolving.  Then he woke one morning — alone. He regretted not taking time for the things that counted.  For working too hard.  For putting money first. 

“I used to have money, but not anymore. Not anymore,” he spoke quietly.  “Finally, you find that money is not the important thing.” 

Meeting Bill was meeting life.  How he loved it.  How he railed at injustice.  At the fates.  Such an odd man.  Full of enthusiasm, talent, wisdom, secrets.  Full of beauty and hope. 

And cancer.

He wrote letters to the President of the United States crying out against the injustice and tyranny governing the laws of medicine.  Bill beseeched people to listen to his story, to explore the alternatives available in other countries— to the rich in this country.  He was obsessed.  Driven.  He was on a sacred mission, trying to save his life. 

All he wanted was for someone to listen. Please listen. 

Bill sent copies of his letter to the editors of every magazine and newspaper he knew.  Many of the copies were published.  Yes, he wrote the President.  And I wrote Ophra Winfrey, asking her to tell Bill’s story to the world; a talented man on social security, dying of lung cancer, searching for alternative treatments, not approved by the FDA, and others unfunded by Medicare.  Lifesaving treatment available but denied.  Both letters — mine and his — unanswered, at the bottom of some slush pile. 

Dismissed.

Finally, Bill gave up.  Not on life.  But on his public crusade against medical injustice.  He turned his attention to other writing.   Writing the history of Rock ‘n Roll and his part in it.  We, his family — members of the Wild Bunch — found out he was there in the beginning, tossing out names like Diamond and Clark, as you would toss leaves to the wind.  He knew them, and more. Writing.  Always writing.  And agents interested.

On Thursdays, Bill glowed.  He was exuberant.  Enthusiastic.  Lavish in his praise of other’s work.  The word cancer was a distant memory.  When looking at Bill you only saw life.  And hope. 

Finally, one Thursday he could no longer hide the fact that he was in pain.  He needed help beyond fresh fruit and vegetables, and his own pure determination to live.  He found the answer in California with a new cancer treatment.  Optimism awakened in all of us.  And so, he left.  With a smile as wide as the sky.  His first words to me echoed, “I couldn’t be more excited if I were going to California.”

Bill taught me so much. He taught me I could do anything. I wonder if he knows. I should have told him. Before he left.

There is a hole in Thursdays without Bill; a talented editor as well as a contributor to a screen writer’s magazine, he was full of incisive comments, and noteworthy recommendations. He is a presence you can’t help but miss. 

“This is so beautiful,” Bill told Stacey one Thursday evening. “God, I wish I could write like this.”

Bill had his own way of saying so.  You thought it might go on forever. So-o-o-o-o was his highest praise.

“And Stacey, you are such a bright girl, please, please, don’t forget, the comma goes inside the quotation marks.”

“I know Bill.  I know.  I don’t know why I keep forgetting.”

We will not forget.

I sit writing this and ache at my very center.  Ache for Bill.  But I shouldn’t.  He would say, “Life is so precious.  Grab it, take it, live it.  Do what you love.  Only what you love.  Write.”

It’s Thursday. 

Bill died in California today.

I’m writing Bill.  I’m writing.

Epilogue

A small group gathers beneath the neon glow of a lighted sign in a restaurant parking lot. Just beyond their combined shadows, a stream of traffic constantly whizzes past on the busy street adjacent to where they stand. A car motor coughs and catches and roars as the driver backs out of a white-lined space on the rough gray asphalt. Gunning the motor. He races away.

The friends congregate in view of the entrance to the Old South Pancake House, their unofficial meeting place each week after they have read and critiqued their stories.  The site is chosen for meaning, not light-hearted conversation. And coffee. Maybe pie.

There is no church. No choir music. No hollow words.  Standing together yet apart, they hold a rainbow of wishes.  Memories.  Balloons laced with blue markings silhouetted against the night-black sky.  Balloons with messages.  Messages to Bill.  Earlier, one of them was heard to say, “I know Bill is waiting up there — waiting to hear from us. Waiting to catch our words.”

Someone turns on a handheld recorder. Hushed, with eyes cast down, they listen to the words of a haunting poem. Bill’s poem.  It is his voice that spirals up into the warm darkness.  Circling. Spinning. Weaving.  Saying good-bye.

Bill’s voice fades. The recorder clicks off. Hands open, loosening their grip on the twine that holds their wishes. Balloons float. Lift. Soar. Vanishing into the darkness of night.

Good-bye Bill. Good-bye.