So Long, Pal
And so came the inevitable message from daughter Katherine. After a year of battling a misdiagnosed mystery illness, months of steadily spiraling downward and weeks of bedbound misery: “Stuart passed away in his sleep around 10:30 p.m. yesterday (May 16). His passing was peaceful.”
Stuart had been in and out of consciousness his last week, engaged in rambling conversations with his deceased son, Stuart Jr. On July 23rd, his ashes will be spread here on the farm in Fairfield where he liked to visit and spend the occasional night, always remarking on the peacefulness of the place and the contentedness he found here. Stuart will have plenty of company. Siobhan’s mother and stepfather were similarly dispersed and a legion of horses, dogs and cats are buried on the property.
What is left to be said about Stuart Bentler that hasn’t already been related in columns past? Quite a few things, actually. Stuart had a passion for order, for scheduling, bordering on mania. It worked for him. The suits in his closets were perfectly arranged. He rolled up every item in his underwear and sock drawers. His days were planned in minuscule detail, often to the utter frustration of his friends who referred to him as “the ultimate tour guide.”
One night in Gainesville, Mike (Jagger) Hatcherson was back in town visiting. Jagger, an old Circus employee then living near Sun Valley in Idaho, Stuart and I were having a few drinks and telling sordid tales at Lillian’s in one of those men’s club episodes that often lasts into the wee hours. Everybody was hooting and having a great time when Stuart suddenly took note of his watch, stood up and advised that he was off to his next scheduled event. Jagger looked at me, dumbfounded. “What’s that all about?” he wondered. “Welcome to the world of Stuart Bentler,” said I.
Stuart had an eye for the ladies, even if they were your ladies. Betsy Harper and I were entering the Gainesville Hilton for Valentine’s Day dinner one evening when we ran into Stuart and Leslie. Betsy was wearing a beautiful white diaphanous dress and Stuart was clearly taken with the package. He suggested we all have dinner together, which I’m sure Betsy and Leslie preferred not to do. I mean, it’s Valentine’s Day, right? But we deferred and dined together. This was around 1985. Ever since, at least once a year, Stuart has asked me “what was the name of that girl in the see-through dress?” Betsy would be delirious to know she’d made an impression lasting 25 years.
The last time I saw Stuart at the Mayo Clinic, he cited a line in the blog concerning his days as an electric yoyo wielder extraordinaire. In the article, I mentioned my then-girlfriend, Patty Wheeler, and her fascination with Stuart’s rare talents. I said I should have swapped her for Leslie for the betterment of all concerned.
“I didn’t know that was an option,” Stuart said. Actually he said it twice, as if we could do anything about it now.
A Waist Is A Terrible Thing To Mind
At the reception following daughter Katherine’s elaborate wedding, Stuart introduced Siobhan and I to a lean, attractive woman named Jan. He wanted us to convince her that he was a wonderful fellow, worth following out to his new digs in Phoenix. I guess we did an adequate job because Jan went and stayed with Stuart for ten years, although they never seemed in sync. Ten years of Stuart is a lot of tour guidance, more than most could handle (ex-wife Leslie probably qualifies for sainthood), and soon after moving to Fort Lauderdale, Stuart and Jan went their separate ways, much to Stuart’s chagrin. I was in Miami a lot around this time and often stayed the night at Stuart’s house although this was not something I had done much previously.
“Are you staying here because you feel sorry for me?” he wanted to know.
“Sure,” I told him.
“That’s okay then,” he replied. “Will you stay here when I get a girlfriend?”
“Not so much. You won’t need me anymore.”
“Okay,” said Stuart. “Now we’ve got a plan.”
Eventually Stuart did get a girlfriend, a sizeable South American woman of good humor.
“I know I’m being petty,” he told me, “but she’s a little bit bigger girl than I’m used to. Do you think most men have body types they prefer?”
“Can’t help it,” I told him.
“So you don’t think I’m a shallow moron for not getting too excited?”
“You either get excited or you don’t. You can’t manufacture excitement, except maybe with drugs.”
Needless to say, this romance fell by the wayside. After awhile, Stuart took up with another South American woman, suitably weighted, but a little grumpy. She was a minister at some borderline Protestant church, preoccupied with her duties and not a good fit. Stuart talked her into a trip north to meet all his friends, something she clearly did not want to undertake. By the time they got to us, she was peevish and miserable, traits unworthy of a woman of God. Stuart had some semblance of a relationship with another woman in Los Angeles while he was out there trying to peddle a dead aunt’s real estate, but it was nothing of consequence. The loves of his life were Leslie and Jan, even though he was angry and disappointed with the results.
One aspect of his life that he was not disappointed with was his children. Even though Stuart Jr. had Muscular Dystrophy, his father was thrilled with him and did his best to make every day in his life a happy one. After Stuart and Leslie broke up in Atlanta and Stuart returned to Tampa, Stuart Jr. eventually went back to live with his father, who sacrificed much to attend to his son. As the days grew shorter for Stuart Jr. (most people with MD don’t make it to their mid-teens—Stuart Jr. died in his nineteenth year), the two of them took a cross-country trip, visiting every dinosaur park and scenic overlook along the way. Stuart compiled a beautiful account of the trip in an extraordinary book full of photographs, postcards and Stuart’s grand handwriting. It is a monument to father/son love and closeness.
In one of our conversations—before Stuart got sick—he fell into unusual melancholy. He and Katherine’s fiancée were on the outs and he was concerned that his relationship with his daughter would be compromised.
“You know, I’ve had a pretty good life,” he said. “The first two-thirds of it, anyway. It wouldn’t be a big deal to me if I died tomorrow. You know, I’ve lost a lot. I lost my marriage. When I tried to hold on to that and moved to Atlanta with Leslie, I lost my business. I lost my two houses in the divorce. And I lost Jan. Worst of all, I lost little Stuart. I had to go over to Europe for months to get over that. And I handled it, I’m alright. But if I lost Katie, I don’t know….I don’t think I’d want to be around anymore.”
Well, Stuart, you may not be around any more. But I think you’ll agree, after witnessing her incredible performance in your dying days, you never ever lost Katie.
Stuart And The Flying Pie
Stuart was like a Hollywood actor when it came to getting attention. To him, there was no such thing as bad publicity. He was a big fan of the blog, usually reading it within a couple hours of publication and feeling free to comment on anything and everything, particularly if he discerned anything he thought to be a mistake. When he was first diagnosed with amyloidosis, Siobhan thought it might not be kind to banter about a life-threatening illness. So I asked him.
“No, no,” Stuart replied. “The blog is great. My favorite line is the one about poking me with a stick. Write anything you want. Full speed ahead!” And full speed it was, to the end.
The Pallbearers
If you were one of Stuart’s greatest friends, one he would do anything for and could expect anything of, he designated you a “pallbearer.” One of the guys who would be there lugging the casket at the end of the road. As time went by and other pallbearers fell by the wayside by death or indifference, I was one day informed I was “senior pallbearer.” But then Stuart decided he would be incinerated, leaving the pallbearers without much action. I knew who the original pallbearers were and had met several of them but I have no idea who constitutes the current crop. Hoping to meet the rest of you at the Grand Finale on July 23rd.
As for you, Stuart, the siege is over and you’ve ascended (hopefully) to that Great Formula 1 Track In The Sky. But wherever you are, one last farewell from a friend and pallbearer who appreciated your intellect, humanity and good humor. There are only a few people you meet in life who understand every nuance you advance in conversation, who always have a sharp retort at the ready, who never see a joke fly over their heads and you were one of those people. When you left after a visit, you always seemed a little sad to go and you looked me in the eye and said, a little wistfully, “so long, pal,” a line I’ll repeat now.
So long, pal. It’s been a carnival knowing you.
The Aftermath
So a friend has disappeared and left the world with one less person who cares about you, a diminishing band to say the least. You drive down the road, however, and the sun is high, the daily sights are the same, as if nothing ever happened, as if your friend never existed. And you know, of course, this is the way it will be with you, too, when the day comes. And you wonder about your contribution, about your indistinguishable mark on the world and you are sad. It’s a natural thing. Perhaps you are inspired to a greater station.
But ask yourself—whoever attains a true mark on the world, let alone a positive one? The King of Belgium may have a spectacular funeral but how much difference did he really make? Even Great Presences rarely linger. You can have your name on a building today and they replace it with another name tomorrow (ask Joe Robbie). Most true contributors make their marks quietly….people like conscientious schoolteachers who greatly influence thousands; philanthropists who take pains to ascertain exactly where their contributions are going to produce the greatest results; risk-taking benefactors like Doctors Without Borders; unknown scientists who contribute to the development of vaccines and cures for disease.
Not everybody has the talent to be included in this band, but anybody can be an Arupa Freeman. This Gainesville force of nature has taken it upon herself to be a one-woman hurricane of aid to the homeless in her town. With very modest fiscal resources of her own, she has marshaled a rag-tag band of volunteers to drive an old van around the city, feeding the down-and-out in every nook and cranny she can find them, bringing blankets in the winter to people who would otherwise freeze, taking up their cause in City Commission meetings and in eloquent letters to the editor of the newspaper. She doesn’t worry about being taken advantage of by bums and winos, to Arupa Freeman everybody has their story, nobody sought to descend to their wretched states, everybody deserves a hand out. And, unlike most, she’s not trying to recruit to any religion. Arupa Freeman is making her mark.
For those less inspired, you are all part of the Great Tapestry of Life. You make a tinier mark, but a mark, nonetheless. I look forward to visiting with Julie, my postmistress, every morning and Larry, the Fedex man, most afternoons. I like to talk to Sharon and Barbara on the treadmills at the gym, to visit Charles Weston and his faithful Indian companion, Michael, at the training center, to talk to Larry Pilotti on the phone Saturdays to see how the horses in Miami are doing.
Corny as it sounds, the dead live in our memories. I’m still writing things about Janis Joplin and Lieuen Adkins and Joe Brown and even Win Pratt, all long gone but alive in my own thoughts because they made a contribution to my life.
If I do a good job here, maybe someone will even remember me.
