Thanks

When I was in high school I had a friend named, Steve. Actually I had about eight friends named Steve, but that was the name back then.

Steve had a mop of wiry, curly, red apple hair, slightly gnarled teeth, the bluest eyes and an Irish twinkle that got him into trouble for little more than breathing. He was gregarious and silly which easily masked the fact that he was brilliant. I think he may have wanted to keep his intelligence covert because the honor role kids-- the ones who spent their off hours in the "computer room"-- weren't nearly as much fun as the mischievous, messed-up kids-- the ones with a very dry sense of humor, who smoked pot and thought up clever ways to deface the school without leaving permanent damage.

He hung out with the musicians and the artsy crowd and was himself a drummer in the marching band and an art room star. But like all charismatic charmers who manage to defy high school's damning peg system, he was also a nimble wrestler and played varsity football. Steve was so friendly, to literally everybody, that he was voted homecoming king, hands down, over all the straight-teethed Arian offspring and some of our high school's more superior genetic lottery winners. He made the exchange student, "Hor-Hay from Ecuador," his best friend, and treated all teachers with a gentlemanly respect that, in hindsight, was just shades away from abject mockery. He was inconsistent academically and his teachers, who had mixed feelings about him, couldn't help but smile at his jokes. He was an exceptional hugger.

When he learned that he couldn't go to the senior prom because of his latest run in with the Principal, Steve decided to throw his own. It was to be called, "Lil' Stevie's Prom." I drew up a flyer in cursive and gold dust and taped them all around the school. (Clearly subversive plotting through stealth action was not part of my oeuvre at the time.) The idea was that everyone would give Steve twenty bucks, which he'd keep in his pocket. We'd use most of it for the rental payment on the Knights of Columbus dining hall and the rest on kegs of Bud. The cover band, for which I sang and played tambourine, would play for free and we'd all have the prom of our dreams, with Lil' Steve as our master of ceremonies and nothing but dancing and beer. The school was abuzz in no time and people were so friggin' excited about it you would have though Evel Knievel was comin' to town.

We hit our first roadblock when the rental hall discovered that no one among us was eighteen. And then there was the little issue of the legal drinking age in New Jersey, which was, as you might have guessed, not seventeen. Our teachers went berzerk. My flyers were taken down and we were all reprimanded by school authorities. Steve refunded every one's money.

I didn't know what went on in Lil' Stevie's home growing up. If it wasn't part of my own scope of experience then it didn't occur to me. So much of what I later learned about people's home lives would have gone right over my head back then, even if I had known. Heck, even stuff about my own childhood went over my head until very recently. To this day I don't know very much about Steve's private life but I wish I new more. I know that he graduated and at some point went into the army. He was stationed at the DMZ zone, on the 38th parallel in Korea and learned Korean. I was a fierce pen pal in those days, a real US postal force to be reckoned with, and we exchanged letters often.

When he returned, he taught me how to say, "Thank You," in Korean. "Kum-sahm-nee-dah," he would say, and I would repeat it to myself, sometimes calling him to ask if I was saying it correctly. As a reward for being a good student he taught me, "You're Welcome," or "Chun-mah-nay-o."

By this time I was living in New York City and going to NYU where Korean delis dotted the landscape, at least one on every corner it seemed. Every time I bought a NY Post or an ice cream sandwich, I got to practice my phrase, and in doing so, thought of Steve. Usually the busy cashier didn't notice my mumblings or perhaps thought she'd only heard it in her mind. But every so often, she brightened, smiled and looked up into my eyes. "You speak Korean?" she'd ask excitedly and before I could answer would shout over to her friend. And each time I would feel embarrassed to say, "No. Just kum-sahm-nee-dah and chun-mah-nay-o." But they didn't seem as disappointed as I was in myself. They seemed happy that I'd taken the time or made the effort, and I, in turn, was happy to practice my phrase and think of Steve. This little ritual went on for the nearly twenty years that I lived in NY, LA, Brooklyn and San Francisco and continues to this day with the nice family who owns the dry cleaner in my New Jersey suburban town.

As the years accumulated I kept tabs on Steve but didn't see him. I knew, with a sort of lazy complacency, that I would most certainly see Steve again, and so I didn't even try. He wasn't in my graduating class, so he didn't come to my reunions, but I knew he lived in Boston, was married and had kids. He was one of those people where if you'd ask me whom I'm most curious about from high school, Steve would have made the list. And every time I said "Thank you" in Korean he was right there with me, making some crack about buying another box of Mallowmars or ribbing me for how I got that stain on my shirt.

Maybe it's because he was always with me that I never looked him up. So when he died at around age forty, I was pissed. Pissed at myself for taking him for granted and pissed at him for the obvious. I couldn't believe that I would never get that chance to see if his twinkle had made it through the years, though his face had aged, and to just hang out and shoot the breeze for a while. It didn't occur to an old boyfriend from high school to tell me about the service, so I missed it. I felt robbed.

I guess that's the way things go when you get right down to it. Most people will never know who've they affected and how. And maybe that's for the better. Maybe knowing how you've affected some one is too much information, or not necessary or down right none of your business. But no matter. I've forgiven myself for not looking him up and for taking him for granted. For assuming he'd live. Now I'm content to think of Steve, every so often, in a very healthy and friendly way, attached to the smallest expression of kindness, which was a big part of who he was. I think he would have gotten a huge kick out of it. And maybe when he unwrapped the plastic from the hangar before putting on his lightly starched shirt, he would have thought of me, thinking of him, saying thanks to Koreans, everywhere.

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