| Sunday, November 22, 2009 |
I n the weeks since he checked himself into hospice, choosing to forgo the dialysis treatments that would prolong his life, Art Buchwald has been holding court; eating what he wants to eat, saying what he wants to say and writing what he wants to write. Gifts are pouring in; food and flowers, cards and letters. Well-wishers and the most notable names in the country are clustered around him.
It's only fitting. After all, for more than 50 years as both a syndicated columnist and best-selling author, Buchwald has been there for our amusement.
In 1976 when Buchwald visited the campus of my small private college in Birmingham, Ala., as part of a guest lecturer series, I was the youngest member of the hospitality committee designated to squire him around campus.
After he spoke that evening, he asked us to take him to the local hangout. The pub where the students gathered to drink, smoke, see and be seen. We took him to The Tide and the Tiger, a rough place across the street from the stadium where the University of Alabama played many of its games, including the annual Alabama (Crimson Tide) and Auburn (Tigers) death match. Hence the name.
It wasn't much of a place. The little building held a jukebox, a smoke-filled bar, wobbly tables and booths with cracked vinyl seats. Millie, the barmaid who had seen her share of students and drunken football fans, was just as tough.
I had only heard about the Tide and the Tiger, of course. Shy and still flopping on the edge of campus life like a fish out of water, I hadn't had any reason to visit.
But when the group took Buchwald to the bar, I went along.
Buchwald insisted on buying a round of drinks. The others, mostly upperclassmen, ordered a beer, but I had never had beer. I didn't think I would like it but I didn't know how to order anything else. My mind raced over all the movies I'd ever seen, and finally lit on the only cocktail I could remember.
I ordered a Bloody Mary.
Millie, still standing with her hand on the tap, gave me a look of utter disgust. She grabbed a couple of bottles, stirred a little and then handed me a glass.
It's a good thing I like tomato juice.
I joined Buchwald and the older students back at the table and took a sip of my drink.
Delicious. Turns out I like a little alcohol in my tomato juice, too.
Thinking back, I don't remember uttering a single word that night. I do remember the sound of the jukebox and the loud voices of the partying students in the background. I remember a lot of laughter, and the impish expression on Buchwald's face. I remember the spicy taste of my drink and the feeling of being a part of something very unusual. Maybe something big.
I remember that it dawned on me suddenly that at 18, I was underage. I was drinking illegally. For a wild second, I was terrified that the police would burst through the door and arrest me.
Then I relaxed. It was worth it.
While the others chummed it up with Buchwald, jockeying to match him joke for joke, I just sat there. I sipped my drink and watched his face. It was a wonderful face. His eyes crinkled as he laughed at his own jokes and at the things the others said. His eyes locked with mine and crinkled again.
I smiled back as I sucked on the little plastic straw and watched and listened.
Now, 30 years later, as Buchwald prepares for the end of his life, I wish I could do it again. I'd like to be in the room with him again, watching him do what he does best.
I'd like to hear what he has to say and watch his face as he says it. I'd like to see the other people gather around him and soak it all in, just as the students did that night at The Tide and the Tiger.
This time I might be brave enough to talk.
Thanks to Art Buchwald, I do love a good Bloody Mary. Almost as much as I love being surrounded by people who are talking and laughing and making sparks fly.
Art Buchwald bought me my first cocktail 30 years ago.
If I could, I'd buy the next round.