Growing up my parents never really gave a damn about me. My dad was only aware of my existence when he was pissed and needed someone to yell at. My mom, hell, she didn't even notice me then. Sucks, but a lot of kids go through that or worse. I did a lot of reading when I was a boy. A lot. Mostly rubbish.
One day while perusing the library I picked up a detective novel. A slim little volume called the Gudwulf Manuscript. It featured the wisecracking, tough on the outside, soft on the inside private eye, Spenser. That's with an S. Like the poet. I read that book cover to cover. Then I picked up the next in the series, and the next, and the next and so on.
In a way, Spenser became my surrogate father. When he took a boy about my age under his wing I hung on his every word of advice. I attribute that character, and by extension the author, Robert B. Parker, with teaching me what it is to be a man. I don't know what I'd be without them.
I always meant to meet Mr. Parker some day. At a book reading, perhaps. I doubt I'd have had the courage to admit the above to him, but I sure would have liked to shake his hand.
He died two days after my last birthday and I didn't even know it. Lame as it sounds, it kinda hurts. When life decides to take I shit on me I always reach for a Spenser novel, and it always clears my head, keeps me going when I feel like shouting **** you to the world. Now there won't be another one. No more fatherly advice. No more role model.