A Quiet Kind of Guy

His Life, Which is Based on a True Story

He was a nice enough guy.  He never had a whole lot to say, though.  Cliff was a quiet kind of guy.  He usually seemed distracted, like he had a lot on his mind, although, if he did, he never said anything about it.  Mostly he would say something funny — he could be a very funny guy; he had an extremely sharp mind and a strangely humorous way of looking at things, even a bit bizarre at times.  He would often tell jokes about something that had just been said; he knew a million jokes and could go on non-stop once a topic had been raised (I hear that Rodney Dangerfield was like that).  I think that telling jokes was Cliff’s way of avoiding sharing himself with his friends —  a way of contributing to the conversation without really sharing Cliff.  Everyone would laugh (his jokes were usually top of the line), and then we would go on with our conversation without him until the next joke topic showed up.

Maybe he was liked just for comic relief.

He really didn’t have a lot of friends — he had many acquaintances, but, unless he needed something from someone or someone need something from him, he never called anyone and no one ever called him, like, just to chat and catch up on what’s been going on in their worlds.  Even when you bumped into him somewhere, just the two of you, the conversations seemed awkward and you both wanted to just get on with whatever you were doing.

Cliff always seemed upbeat, though.  His life seemed like it was going just the way he wanted it.  He always seemed to have anything and everything he needed.  Of course, not actually being able to be close to him, one never knew if what he had was what he really wanted.

Cliff had led a long, very interesting life, with many wonderful adventures, which he would only bring up if it fit in with the conversation at the time or he could gain some bragging rights or some similar advantage.  Over the course of the years he shared about his childhood as a Navy brat, moving with his family every three years: Memphis, Pensacola, Whidbey Island, Hawaii, San Diego and, least interesting of all, a small town in Southeast Texas, where his mom was born and reared.  His personal adventures while in the Navy and afterward were some of the most interesting: Visiting Hong Kong, Japan, the Philippines; living in San Francisco in the Hippie Heyday; hitchhiking around the Western states; sex, drugs and rock and roll; two marriages, one child; living three years in Hawaii.

You’d think that with all that travel and adventure his address book would be bulging.  Not the case.  It’s doubtful that more than a dozen people would even be at his funeral.  Maybe more if anyone knew how to contact the people in his past.  He’s one of those fine, honest, loving people who pass amongst us, lifting us up a bit over time, and then fading away forever (dead or alive), except in the memories of a precious few: family and those to whom he owed money or amends.

Maybe his deep feeling of impermanence was the motivation for his taking up the art of writing in his later years.  Maybe it was his deep seated feelings of failure to make an impression worthy of his desires.  Maybe writing was just the only outlet left to him to have his thoughts heard.  One can only hope that it succeeds for him.  Maybe he just wanted to be special.  Or, maybe, just left alone.