Something for Ray - part 1 - 6/6/12

Ray Bradbury died last night.

I have felt sick all day.

And I don't expect to feel much better anytime soon.

I spent the day at work, so I haven't had much time to make the Information Super-rounds, but I have no doubt that the Internet is close to bursting at its ethereal seams with eulogies and obituaries, meditations and musings. Plenty from people who never met him, maybe even more from folks who knew him far better than I. I admit that mine will be a relatively quiet voice in the cacophony of dirges, keens, prayers, and odes. I am a tuna in a sea of White Whales.

I am not Joe Hill. I am not George Clayton Johnson. I am not Frank Darabont or Stuart Gordon. I am not F. Murray Abraham or Joe Mantegna.

But Ray knew me and called me by my first name. And wearing that badge, I will scrawl my tribute on the wall with the others.

Inevitably most of these tributes will come as tales of first encounters, either with the man, or his work. I will spare myself the embarrassment of recounting how speechless and awestruck I was when I came face to face with Our Hero on that September evening in South Pasadena. I will also refrain from boring you with the moment in which his words leapt from the page, swam into my youthful mind, and changed my life forever. Because you've heard it. You probably share a lot of the same details with me there.

Shortly after I moved to Los Angeles in 2007, a good friend and former collaborator from college, Danielle Holland, called me up and said she knew of a job I might be interested in. Stage crew. At the Fremont Centre Theater in South Pas. For the Pandemonium Theatre Company. Their production of Dandelion Wine.

Next thing I know, I'm working for Ray Bradbury, alongside some truly wonderful people.

A great deal of my friendship with Ray is due to the enthusiasm and heroic nature of one of these people. Arguably my closest friend in Southern California, Robert Kerr is the kind of guy everyone knows they are cosmically lucky to have in their life. I met him during Pandemonium's longest running show, an ambitious and passionate stage adaptation of Ray's most famous work, Fahrenheit 451. He had a relationship with Ray that I am deeply envious of, a relationship that damn-near every single living human being on this goddamn Earth should be deeply envious of. Without a car, and without many other means, he has managed to see and hang out with Ray more often in the last five years than anyone I can think of - with the exception of Our Hero's daughter and his staff and the ever-generous John Tarpinian - even accompanying him TWICE to the legendary San Diego Comic Con.

I can imagine few people being as crushed by this morning's news as Robert. However, because of Robert, I got to spend Ray's final Halloween with Our Hero in his home, reading his own words to him at his bedside. Though I never wanted Ray to ever count an All Hallow's Eve as his last, it had been a dream of mine for decades to be in the presence of that Mystical Figure on That Magical Night. There are only a handful of moments more precious to me. And a big, bright, shining one of them is another time I got to read to Ray Bradbury.

On Ray's 89th birthday, the celebration - like many others before and one after - was held at Bookfellows (owned and managed with Great Love and Unquestionable Grace by Malcom and Christine - seriously, go in and see them sometime) in Glendale. Four blocks from my apartment. I had written a poem for Ray. For his birthday. I was asked to read it to him. In front of a crowd of his adoring fans.

I followed Bo Derek.

By the time I finished, Our Hero - My Hero - was weeping.

"I Love You!" he shouted as we embraced. It wasn't the first time he had said those words to me, but it was the first time I felt I'd earned it.

Later on, I was clever enough to smirk, upon hearing of Our Hero's tears, "Good. That's a debt I've been waiting to repay since I read Something Wicked This Way Comes."

...to be continued...