Felonious Monk

Last night I went out for Thai food with my good buddy Steve. We became friends about a year and a half ago when I signed up for a sculpture class he was teaching. Not only is he a great instructor, but we immediately hit it off and soon became as thick as thieves.

A few weeks later, I had Steve over for dinner and we stayed up 'til 2 in the morning, covering every topic from art to Aristotle, our philosophical fire fueled by a copious quantity of red wine. Steve's one of the smartest guys I've ever met, extremely well-read, a world traveler, constantly curious, and has lots of tall tales to tell.

As I walked him to his car at the end of the evening, I hugged Steve goodnight, and in my somewhat altered state, I wasn't sure if our unshaven faces had simply brushed against each other, or if he had kissed me. I sometimes kiss my guy friends on the cheek, so I instinctively kissed him back.

But as he drove off, I had this sinking feeling that he HADN'T kissed me, and had misinterpreted my spontaneous display of affection. I sent him an e-mail the next day to tell him what a great time I'd had, but received no response, which confirmed my worst fears. Several days went by, and the next time I saw him, I felt kinda sheepish. He was with a mutual friend who asked if we knew each other. In response, Steve came over and gave me a bear hug and a big smooch on the cheek and said "Yeah, we kissed for the first time last week." You gotta love a guy like that.

Last summer, when Steve was relocating his studio from one side of town to the other, he needed a place to stay while he finished out his new digs, so I offered him my spare bedroom. Far from being altruistic, my motives were completely self-serving...underneath my seeming benevolence was a desire to hang out with this fascinating character. I've lived alone for more than 20 years, and Steve ended up staying for several weeks. Unlike most house guests, however, the longer he stayed, the more I didn't want him to leave. We grew really close during that time together, and I now consider Steve one of my dearest friends.

He's an extremely talented and prolific sculptor, constantly reinventing his style and exploring new materials...he's currently creating the most amazing sculptures from discarded car windshields! His prowess as an artist is exceeded only by his humility. He's generous to a fault, a riveting raconteur and an all around good guy.

I was delighted to be invited to a recent surprise party for Steve's 65th birthday. I wish I had a photo of the look on his face when he walked into a room filled with his friends and fans. The walls were covered with several years' worth of self-portraits, secretly stolen from under his bed by his girlfriend, who organized the shindig.

All of the drawings bore the same 7 digit number, Steve's primary form of identification during his 16 year incarceration. Originally sentenced to life without parole, Steve spent most of his time in prison at a federal correctional facility ironically named Terminal Island. Never one to give up hope or his perennial equanimity, Steve continued to read, to learn, to evolve as an artist, and to fight for his eventual release. Last night we celebrated his fourth year of freedom.

I consider it a privilege to call Steve my friend. He recently reprimanded me for failing to call him for help when I had to change a flat tire in the rain. I'd take a bullet for that guy. And I know he would for me.