Roy was a friend of mine almost 20 years ago. I hadn’t thought about him in awhile until he came up in a recent conversation with a friend. I am grateful to have had the opportunity to revisit this delicate chapter in my life. Sometimes I need distance to fully appreciate certain times, people and places.
Roy and I were unlikely friends. He was 50 years my senior and a scientist. I was one of thousands of struggling artists in west LA county. A coworker needed help with her father in the mornings to get him breakfast a few days a week and visit a bit as his health was failing due to the progression o f ALS. I agreed to meet him. Seemed simple enough and extra money was especially welcome at the time.
All I knew about him, going into my first meeting, was that he was a renowned scientist known for calorie restriction. I purposely did not want to learn more about him until I met him. For me, someone’s eyes, voice and demeanor are more important than their accomplishments.
I glided down the boardwalk on my skateboard from Santa Monica to the edge of Venice. Venice is a place that vibrates with and an unapologetic experimental approach to life. It was barely 8am but the cacophony of creativity had already begun. Every shop and corner burst with colorful undulating flags, bandanas and t-shirts. Meditation music, rap and hard rock battled for the attention of the tourists. The air was already thick with endless aromas. Incense, sunscreen, marijuana and exotic food went from intoxicating to repulsive as they blended with abandon. I wove my skateboard through the street musicians, contortionists and artists setting up for the day. Sometimes it was difficult to distinguish street performers from the junkies. The junkies frequently regaled one another with spontaneous pontifications. That was one way to tell.
Following the directions I was given, I turned up an alley and found the back door to the address I was given. The back door was actually Roy’s front door. The property was originally adjoining storefronts facing the busy Pacific Ave. One was for research to continue his work. Very serious looking people with flat expressions hunched over computers and ticked away at the keyboards in front of them. The loft above stored what looked like, hard drives and other scientific data.
The adjoining identical space was his home. There was a modest kitchen and living room. The walls were haphazardly decorated with exotic art and treasures from around the world. Mostly the room had books. Lots and lots of dusty books. Many of them translated into different languages were authored by Roy himself. As I recall, one wall was floor to ceiling books. The bottom half of another wall was lined with bookshelves heavy with literature. There were stacks of books on the floor. Stacks of books on the side table, on the desk and counter. Threaded throughout the place were various colored straps connecting doorknobs to stairs or cupboards to chairs etc. I wasn’t sure what I was looking at but fleetingly thought it might be some giant model of an obscure molecular system. I ducked under one strap on my way in.
In the middle of this unconventional space was Roy. He was a small fragile man sitting in an high back office chair. Electric blue eyes as big as quarters fixed on me when I entered. His intelligence was palpable. The room was quiet but one got the impression the clamored energy of the boardwalk outside was a pale reflexion to the complexity of intellect buzzing inside this man’s head.
Lisa, Roy’s daughter, introduced us. “Nice to meet you.” he mumbled taking my measure. His daughter excused herself disappearing into the business side of the building.
“Hi Roy, nice to meet you as well. Have you read all these books?!”
“Yes. Just not all at once.” He responded with a devilish glint in his spectacular eyes.
That was the first of millions of moments when I felt a kindred spirit in him. I liked him immediately.
We began our mornings that day. I nervously followed the smoothie recipe to the letter. This was for science after all and important. I did not want to be the weak link messing up a life time of study. Coffee with Drambuie or cognac were a common part of the routine. Wasa bread with a thin smear of tahini was occasionally added as well.
I handed Roy his coffee. He asked me to put it down on the counter while he reached for one of the straps. I did as he asked then wasn’t sure what else I was supposed to do. He slowly lifted himself using an orange strap that crossed the room and with meticulous precision walked himself hand over hand to the sofa. He turned carefully and let himself half fall into a sit. I brought the coffee and sat next to him. Even my untrained eye could see this was an massive effort for him. I also registered he was kind of proud of it. “This is a better place to talk. So, I am told you are a musician.”
“Um yea. I sing mostly but play so I can write and accompany myself.” I awkwardly explained.
“Wonderful. I play the keyboard and write songs too. I love all kinds of music.”
Off we went. Lost in conversation about types of music, when they evolved and what they represented in their time. How we wrote and what inspired us. It felt like we could have talked for days. He had been friends with the likes of The Doors, The Beach Boys even Manhattan Transfer. Much too soon my time to leave had arrived. I bid him goodbye and arranged with Lisa what days I would return.
Three to four mornings a week were Roy mornings. I rode my skateboard to his back/front door and propped it against the wall just outside. I would start his breakfast even if the nurse hadn’t brought him down from his bedroom loft to his chair yet. When he was ready he would eat and we would visit. In total I knew him less than two years but it didn’t take long to became genuine friends. I told him all the band and work drama. All about the upcoming gigs and the challenges. We would giggle at his stories where he cast himself as a playboy. “Roy you dog!” I would exclaim with feigned disapproval. He especially loved these exchanges. He also really enjoyed when I would drag a string around so Swami his cat could chase it. He adored the cat who was obviously spoiled. It was equally obvious Swami thought, as spoiled as he was, we could do better.
We rarely discussed his career. A few mentions of the Biosphere here and there. Usually this happened when a mysterious plaque engraved with his name appeared honoring him for his contribution to science. He wasn’t interested in these tokens anymore. They languished gathering dust among the books.
I learned how to use leverage to move him from chair to sofa when he became too weak to use the straps. I learned about feeding tubes and how to slowly feed his breakfast into it. We laughed that we didn’t have to stop talking now that he didn’t have to chew. I could see his body shrinking. I learned to gently help him with his neck brace when his neck got so small it couldn’t hold his head properly. Speech became more challenging as well but we managed. Nothing took the light from his eyes.
Despite his declining health he managed to make it to a few of my shows. The curiosity was too much for him. He had to see for himself the characters he had heard so much about. He came to one on the Santa Monica Pier. I can’t imagine how difficult it must have been to get his wheelchair across the tar soaked railroad ties. But there he was smack in the front. He also made it the performing arts center. A nicer show with sets and an opening act. He drank a martini from a straw looking dapper in his sport coat. Always the twinkle in his eye.
One morning he was already in his chair when I arrived looking freshly bathed and bright. “Morning!” I called ready to start his breakfast. “Come here for a moment.” he said. “I have something for us.”
“Something for us?” I was confused.
“I ordered the history of music.” He smiled. There were dozens of VCR tapes with lectures from professors from all the top schools. Juilliard, Yale, NYU etc. The tapes started at prehistoric chants and rhythms. Covered how instruments were made and the theories as to why. We quietly watched these lectures side by side all the way through the great composers to modern times. Talking had become more difficult for him. This is what took it’s place. I could start the tape only when I sat down with him. We watched until it was time to leave. At the very last minute I would take out the tape and place it to the left of the TV in exactly the same place every day until I returned.
“What do you think of Ragtime?” he asked as I placed the tape in the designated spot. “I love the cheerfulness of it. Impossible not to want to dance right?” He agreed. “See ya Roy! You behave.” I teased as I rolled off to my next job.
There was a day in between that I didn’t see him. I was working at the Westwood location of the yoga school when my cell rang. It was Emily, the other woman who cared for Roy on my mornings off.
“Has Lisa called you?” she asked.
“Oh, hey! Are we changing schedules?”
There was an ominous pause. “Roy died last night.” she said it plainly. I didn’t envy her position. It was the most economical way to handle it. My brain stopped working. Nothing made sense. Surly I didn’t understand what she meant. She misspoke. I misheard.
“Wait, what?”
“He went into respiratory failure and they couldn’t revive him. The brain damage was too great.”
A cold heartless reality began to sink in. I hurriedly walked to the bathroom for privacy to continue the conversation. I asked all the questions. What happened? When? Who was with him? Where was Swami?
Then the tears. They wouldn’t stop. Emily stayed on the phone while the vampiric bite of grief took hold. We all knew the day was coming but to happen so suddenly and completely was … there are no words. Finally after what seemed like a long time she told me Lisa was at Roy’s and I should go over to help in whatever way I could. That it would be good for me. She was headed there herself.
I did. It was good for me to feel helpful. Lisa was wise like her father.
The place was a flurry of activity. His chair wasn’t where it was supposed to be. The moaning sound of a vacuum filled the place. His desk was cleared and organized. The kitchen sink didn’t have his coffee cup in it. Everything was different in a way I didn’t like. I busied myself with the tasks she gave me but stopped in my tracks when I saw the VCR tape. Still in it’s designated place untouched. It wasn’t dusty like the things around it. It sat unfinished and pure like our friendship. I drew a long breath and kept moving. It was all I could do.
Many years later I can look back and remember detail like it just happened. My memories of him are richly vivid. We always knew our time was limited. It made us pay attention to each other. Didn’t take anything for granted. What I didn’t grasp until just a few days ago was the gift he gave me. He knew I didn’t finish college. He brought the best education from all the best universities to me and sat beside me while I learned. This was so Roy! He knew it would dawn on me long after he was gone. He gave me something that would last forever and could never be taken away. Incredibly sweet forethought from a dying, brilliant and very busy man.
I miss our mornings. Ragtime always makes me think of you.
I didn’t get the chance to say it then Roy, but thank you. For everything.