Mallen

I came back from an interview and saw the e-mail from John Mallen. I couldn't believe it was the same Mallen, but it was.

"I had a hell of a time tracking you down," the e-mail said.

I first met Mallen as a kid. He was my father's young protege -- a young, eager reporter who also loved to fish and play practical jokes. He was a member of the family, and Robbo and I both had adolescent crushes on him.

He moved on and I moved away. I heard he had moved to New York City, and I intended to look him up, since I lived in the suburbs, less than 30 miles away.

When my father died in January of 1990, I finally looked him up. He was the only John Mallen in the Manhattan phone book. I felt guilty for not finding him before then because I know he would have wanted to see Daddy before he died.

But I invited him to dinner and we drank too much wine and cried together. When he read some of my writing, he cried even harder.

"You are your father," he said.

It was one of the finest compliments I've ever been paid.

We stayed in touch for awhile, and then I moved to North Carolina seven years ago. He said he started thinking about me a couple weeks ago and finally tracked me down (it doesn't take much detective work to do that).

We talked for about a half hour. He's one of those friends that it doesn't matter how long you've been apart, you settle right back into that comfortable relationship. He was deeply saddened by Mike's death. He remembered Mike as a goofy teenager who loved nothing better than to hang around with his cousin, Shannon and be silly. Mallen always had an appreciation of silly.

"Hey, remember Doc Levinson?" he asked.

Of course I do. He was another of my father's favorite partners in crime. He was a Congregationalist minister who had a profound, if not delayed, effect on my faith. He was terrified of snakes, and when I tried to show him a baby snake I had found, he ran, screaming, from the house. I believe he retired to Conecticut, but I haven't found him.

"Yeah, did you ever see the way he fed that dog of his?"

I didn't recall, so Mallen described it.

"He took slices of pepperoni and put them between his toes and let the dog take them from there," Mallen said. "It was disgusting."

"C'mon Mallen, you had your own disgusting habits didn't you?"

"Not like that. Not like letting a dog lick my feet and eat something that's been between my toes." Mallen always remembers the good stuff. I'll bet he could track down his and Daddy's former colleague, Doug Allen so we could call him Tinkerbell again.

So we promised to stay in touch this time. I think his wife sees me as one of the guys and she is suspicious of the guys. Mallen pretty much manages to stay out of trouble. But I think he and I could raise a little hell on a Saturday night. I'm sure the thought of that makes Rob a little nervous too.

But it's fun to have someone who remembers the good old days with me. And a wild night out on the town is a lot less rambunctious than it used to be.

Still, I really do hope he does come to visit. In addition to his own value as an old friend, I get the benefit of someone who looked up to my father as much as I did. It's nice to have people who agree with you.