2003-10-13

Missing Tiger

My writing mentor, Tiger Edmonds, was up from Florida this weekend. He left this morning, and I have to admit, I'm not handling it very well. I cannot overstate my indebtedness to the man, and since I don't get to see him very often, I was all kinds of broken up at having to say goodbye.

I arrived at my undergraduate alma mater as a theatre major, and while I graduated with that degree in theatre, I also left with a very clear understanding that my first love has always been writing.

The first time I saw him, I could not believe that this weathered, long-haired biker was an employee of the college, let alone a PhD (Tiger always half-dismisses this by calling it a "Piled Higher-n-Deeper"). I was fascinated-yet-horrified by him, but for some reason he took a liking to me. Tiger took me under his wing and more or less whupped my ass. The first piece of writing I ever turned in to him was passed back to me with one word scrawled across the top: "PAP." That made me mad. More importantly, it made me want to write better.

Tiger bred Black Labs during the years I studied under him, and he'd often bring one of them to class -- Rebel, or Emma, or Amtrak -- and the dogs would instinctively wander down the aisle to hunker down between me and my friend Chuck.

So I got to spend a good chunk of this past weekend with Tiger, who was up here taking part in some big ol' motorcycle gathering. The first night, walking up Newbury Street amid throngs of drunken Red Sox fans, we counted no fewer than a half-dozen shouts of "Yo -- it's Willie Nelson!" I grew so used to his appearance that I never gave it much of a thought, but when out of his element -- particularly on Newbury Street -- Tiger is, in his own words, "a continual source of great merriment, man."

He was definitely amused by the fact that I was married. "Shit. Five years? You been married longer'n any of my own marriages lasted."

"Huh. Yeah, you were married to Nancy when I was out there still."

"That ended real bad, me and Nancy."

"I'm sorry."

"Hell, don't be." A pause, then, "Five years?"

"Mmhmm. Been together seven, though."

"Shit. You gotta understand, you're still twenty to me." He gestured to Kev. "He's gotta be a paragon of patience bein' married to you."

I allowed as to how he most certainly probably was.

Later, on our way to dinner, he took Kev aside. "So you got her, man. I have to tell you, I was half holdin' out hope that she'd wait around for me to grow up a little more, so me an' her could run off together."

I'd heard what he'd said, but I whapped him on the arm just the same: "Tiger. What the fuck did you just say?"

"I didn't say anything, darlin'."

"I know what you said. You're a dirty, dirty old man, Tiger."

Like I said, saying goodbye was rough. He's making me send him a bunch of my stuff, and I know he'll be ruthlessly honest, and I am overwhelmed with gratitude that after all these years, he's still willing to do that for me. We stood out in the drizzle in front of the Holiday Inn, and as he hugged me goodbye (smell of denim, cigs, black coffee), he said, "You'd be surprised how much we set around and miss you down there to the college."

"I miss you, too, Tiger."

lisamcc at 9:12 p.m.

Lisa, months ago I found my way to your personal diary by way of LBFCA. Since then I've been hooked to your writing. Your wit and wisdom shows through. Thank you!

P.S. We miss you tremendously over at LBFCA, please drop by every now and then.
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