I THINK I KNOW THAT GUY

                If you are a passionate reader and thinker then you probably have a couple of favorite authors.  After devouring all his or her books and articles and experiencing a satisfying emotional connection, your author may feel like one of the family or a good friend.   If your friend is a non fiction writer then what you have read is his ideas or doctrines and whether you realize it or not, you have been influenced by his ideas, which may be reflected in your behavior. 

                Behavior can be violent, compassionate, constructive, productive, and even masochistic.  Mein Kampf by Adolph Hitler is an example of ideas that influence violent behavior.  We could add the Quran and Hadith to the list.  The Declaration of Independence by Thomas Jefferson and Common Sense by Thomas Paine are ideas that are the antithesis of authors who preach discrimination and would coerce and enslave those humans considered inferior. 

                There is another genre on a level with Jefferson and Paine, the objective of which is learning and understanding, its called philosophy.  The philosopher is also a historian with the objective of understanding and learning from both the good and the bad of mankind’s behavior.  When it comes to civilizing the human race, the philosophers in my opinion deserve more credit than the popes, prophets, priests, imams and generals.  It was out of philosophy that evolved the chemists, doctors and engineers that made life more comfortable, safer and constructive.  I don’t know of a philosopher who started a war or advocated war as a solution.  Psychology, which I think is more a branch of philosophy than medicine, helps us understand why we think and do the things we do. 

                A year ago this March my wife and I took a five-day Amtrak vacation to San Francisco.  She had never ridden on a train and I hadn’t seen San Francisco since I was discharged from the US Navy at Treasure Island, March 1956, 55 years ago.  Back in those Navy days from ’52 to 56’ the traditional mode of travel was by Greyhound Bus or the train.  And in those days service men were able to sleep under almost any circumstance, be it on the steal deck of a tossing ship or rattling train.  So I thought a train ride would be a treat, reminiscent of the carefree old days.  And I looked forward to see how the “city by the sea” had changed.  As a red-blooded American sailor I had had a few memorable liberties in Frisco which is another story – a story I will probably take to my grave.

                We caught the train in Salt Lake City late at night.  I had purchased what the Amtrak people called a roomette for two.  When I took a look at the roomette I said, “This doesn’t look at all like the picture on the Internet.”  The roomette did not appear to me to be much of an improvement over the old Pullman berths.  When the seats were folded down into a bed and the top bunk was lowered from the ceiling it left little room for luggage and to stretch out.  A curtain was all that separated the roomette from the walking aisle.

                It was a miserable night.  As a young sailor the clickity clack put me to sleep, now it kept me awake.  I couldn’t sleep.  I tried meditating, counting sheep, reading, nothing worked.  I supposed I dozed off occasionally but in those cramped quarters it didn’t seem like it. 

                From the Amtrak terminal on the Oakland side of the Bay we took a bus over the Bay Bridge.  We could see a few freighters and barges on the Bay but no war ships.  Treasure Island was still there, looking unmilitary and unfamiliar.  It was late afternoon and the traffic was abominable. 

                Our hotel was a block from Pier 39.  When we exited the bus I could smell the sea air and took a deep breath.  At least the ocean smell hadn’t changed and I took another deep breath.  It felt good and it momentarily revived me from the malaise I felt from a sleepless night.  

                One of our goals in taking the trip was to dine at a couple of fancy Frisco seafood restaurants.  But we were so tired by the time we reached our hotel late in the afternoon that we ate at the nearest tourist fast seafood shop, clam chowder in a hollowed out loaf of bread. 

                I couldn’t wait to hit the sack.  My routine is climb in bed early with a good book, read a couple of chapters and drift off to sleep.  To make sure I got a good night’s sleep I gulped down a sleeping pill.

                I go to bed early and rise early.  It was daybreak and the wife was still fast asleep.  After showering and shaving I whispered to my sleeping wife, I was going to find me a cup of coffee and walk down by the piers.  I wanted to gorge myself on that sea air. 

                Pier 39 is a tourist trap, restaurants with fancy names and souvenir shops crowded together on both sides of the pier.  A cruise ship and a couple of tourist boats were tied up to the dock.  They didn’t interest me.

                It was early Sunday morning and nearly all the shops and eating houses were still closed.  Except for couple of people waiting for a bus I was by myself.  Luckily I found a little lunch counter open and got me a coffee in a styrofoam cup. 

                There was another pier off to my right that looked like it had some fishing boats tied up alongside, so while sipping my coffee I headed that way. 

                It was a beautiful morning, not a cloud in the blue sky.  The sun was peeking over Nob Hill taking the chill out of the fresh ocean air.  The grass along the parkway was a rich green.  I was particularly impressed with a 10’ X 12’ patch of white calla lilies in full bloom surrounded by a well trimmed privet hedge.  Spring was in full flower in San Francisco while back home it was still winter.

                As I strolled down the wooden pier I could see an elderly man up ahead sitting on a wooden bench reading a book.  He was a broad shoulder, heavyset man wearing a light and dark brown, plaid wool shirt, and a matching flannel cap.  He wore rimless eyeglasses and puffed on a large cigar as he read.  There was nothing out of the ordinary about the man other than he and I were the only souls on the pier.  I wondered if he was a fisherman, possibly a captain of one of the fishing boats, but as I grew closer he didn’t seem the fisherman type.

                As I got about three rods from the old gentleman, probably a year or two older than me, I thought to myself, he sure looks familiar.  “I think I know that guy.”  But I couldn’t remember where.

                I stopped, racking my brain, “Where do I know him from?”  I didn’t want to approach him and then not remember his name.  Sometimes I have a problem with names, especially when I’m about to introduce a friend – my mind goes blank. 

                The old  gent was so engrossed in his reading he hadn’t noticed me.  I studied him, trying to retrieve from the recesses of my mind who the guy was, and at the same time was impressed how disciplined he was in his concentration.  Every once in awhile he would look out over the bay, obviously pondering what he had just read.  Then he would pick up a notebook on the bench and jot something down all the while puffing gently on the cigar.  My curiosity was so overpowering I forgot about the fishing boats and bay.  I wondered what book he was reading and what he was writing down.

                While sipping my coffee I meandered a little closer.  I wasn’t wearing my glasses and thought if I was closer and got a good look it would jog my memory.  I was about eight feet from him when he sensed my presence and looked up – our eyes meeting.  And then it hit me, it was Eric Hoffer – or his twin brother. 

                “Good morning,” he said with a smile, his clear blue eyes shining.

                I was so startled I didn’t know what to say.  Was it really him?  How could it be, he died in 1983?  Then I heard myself saying, “You’re Eric Hoffer!”  And I felt my face turn crimson.  My tone was not accusatory or a question, but a fact – and I thought overly presumptuous. 

                He didn’t deny it, just smiled and took a big puff on the cigar, the aroma smelled good and reminded me of a baseball game. 

                He then looked out over the bay, the bluish-green water rippling from a breeze coming off the ocean.  “Beautiful morning, don’t you think?  It makes one feel glad to be alive.” 

                “Alive?”  I said under my breath.  “You’ve been dead for twenty years.  In an attempt to get hold of my thoughts I replied, “Yes, it sure is.”  He turned back to me and his smile widened, and the look on his face conveyed he knew what I was thinking.

                Then he said, “You are not from around here are you?” 

                “No,” I answered.  “Me and the wife thought we would get away for a few days , get some fresh sea air and some good seafood.  It’s still winter back home.”

                Taking the cigar out of his mouth he asked, “And where is back home?”

                “A little town south of Salt Lake City called Bluffdale.”

                “It seems like I passed through Salt Lake City many years ago when I left New York.  Don’t remember very much about it other than it was a clean looking city and the home of the Mormon Church.”

                And then I remembered that in reading his biography, in 1920 he had left New York to go to Los Angles.  Maybe this really was Eric Hoffer, but then how could it be?

                We chatted for a few minutes – common talk like the weather, how San Francisco had changed since we were younger.  I mentioned the Hungry Eye and Purple Onion, two fancy, popular nightclubs back in the fifties.  He said he had heard about them but never been there.  I thought, “Of course not.  How stupid of me.  He was not the partying type.”

                Still feeling uneasy, wondering if this fellow was a look-alike, an apparition or I was dreaming, which I was certain I was not, I thought if I touched him I would know if he was real.  But I didn’t dare, it would be rude and I didn’t want to offend him.  He was so relaxed, so at ease and seemed to be enjoying our conversation and  to my delight he seemed to be as interested in me as I was of him.  His blue eyes seemed to twinkle and his perpetual smile seemed to sympathize with the consternation I felt.  In other words, he was so alive for a man that was supposed to be dead. 

                Hoping to determine if this was the real Eric Hoffer I said, “I’ve read all your books and enjoyed them immensely. “

                “Did you like one better than the other?”

                “Sure did, your first one, The True Believer.  I have never read so much wisdom in so few pages.  It ought to be required reading as psychology textbook.”

                His grin grew a little wider and he popped the cigar back in his mouth and puffed it back to life. He took the cigar out of his mouth, checked the glow on the end and said, “I was four years writing The True Believer,” then asked, “Did any other book stand out?

                “Boy,” I said, “that’s hard to say.  They are all excellent, easy reading and very informative.  I guess if I had to pick one it would be Reflections on the Human Condition.”  Both it and The True Believer were very helpful to me in my line of work.”

                He motioned for me to sit alongside him.  Taking the cigar out of his mouth he asked, “Just what line of work would that be?”

                I really didn’t want to talk about myself but he was persistent.  I discerned that he was genuinely interested in how his books had helped others.  I told him that I had been a sex crime specialist as a cop and as a consequence became an avid student of human behavior.  I told him that after I retired was the lead investigator in two civil suits involving polygamist cults.  I explained that his observation about mass movements and individuals gave me an advantage during interrogations and interviews.  His insight was as important to me as the psychology behind sexual deviancy.  I didn’t want to reveal that I was also an author but I found him to be a good interrogator in his own right and he drug it out of me.  I assured him that my books were not nearly as enlightening and prominent as his. 

                A little frown appeared on his face.  He said that when he was five-years-old he learned to read both English and German.  When he was seven he lost his sight and regained it when he was fifteen.  Thinking he may lose his sight again he started reading voraciously and never stopped.  He said he never had any formal education and worked as a laborer all his life.  He had even tried picking fruit and panning for gold.  But he never stopped reading and spent all his spare time in libraries, reading and taking notes.  He said he had all these ideas rattling around in his head wanting to get out.  That’s what motivated him to write The True Believer.  He said he wrote it for himself, it was his way of sorting out the nature of mankind and had no idea it would receive the prominence it did.  One book led to another.   He said reading the thoughts of others, stimulated thoughts of his own.  And then still frowning slightly he looked me straight in the eyes and said, “Most of my best thoughts came from reading books that never achieved prominence.  Any book that presents new workable ideas, observations or solutions to problems is a treasure and not a waste of time.” 

                He emphasized the value of thought and how new thought came about, saying, “The beginning of thought is in disagreement – not only with others but also with ourselves.”  I immediately recognized the statement having read it in one of his books.  I discerned that he was basically conservative, even though he was essentially saying thoughts are consistently changing, old thoughts evolving into new thoughts – premier  thoughts taking on lives of their own as long they are useful and serve a purpose.

                I glanced at the book he had been reading, my curiosity was obvious  and he showed me the front cover.  To my surprise it was Volume VII of The Story of Civilization by Will and Ariel Durant.  Volume VII is entitled, The Beginning of the Age of Reasoning. 

                “I have all eleven volumes,” I piped enthusiastically.  “Will Durant is one of my favorite philosophers and authors.  Unlike you I didn’t start reading seriously until my late forties.  When I read The Story of Civilization I learned about the first philosophers, thinkers like Spinoza, Kant, Nietzsche and Rousseau and at the same time I got the benefit of Will’s thoughts.  The Story of Civilization is a shortcut to the works of the world’s best thinkers.  But my favorite Will Durant book is The Lessons of History.  Like your books it is short but packed full of wisdom.”

                “I have noticed the same thing,” he added.  “I also noticed Durant put his own twist to some of their ideas.  I’m not suggesting Durant was wrong, in fact what he did was clarify some of the more abstract thoughts of men like Rousseau and Voltaire.  Durant was a great author.”

                “What is your name?” he asked. 

                “John Llewellyn. “

                “Well John,” he said, “It is a pleasure to meet someone who is also a lover of books.”

                I had been referring to him as Mr. Hoffer, but he corrected me and said, “Call me Eric, I’m not keen on formalities.”

                “Me either,” I replied.

                There is a time in all conversations when both sides sense that the conversation has come to an end, there seemed to be nothing more that needed to be said.  We reached that point, so I said, “I guess I better start back to the hotel, my wife will wonder what happened to me.  But before I go, Eric, there is one question I have to ask.  I hope you will forgive my impudence. “

                He smiled as if he knew what the question was and his beaming face portrayed expectation. 

                “My eyes and ears tell me you are Eric Hoffer, the author of all those wonderful books. But my brain tells me you died in 1983.”

                He took a couple of good puffs on his cigar, took it out of his mouth and replied, “I’ve been fortunate.  When you are privileged to be in a position to  give mankind something really meaningful and insightful, something that perpetually applies no matter how the world changes, especially a good idea, because an idea doesn’t rust or rot, you don’t really die.  For example, Abraham Lincoln and Thomas Jefferson are as alive today as they were a century ago.”

                He then stuck out his hand, and said, “I’ve very much enjoyed meeting you John.”  I clasped his hand and we both squeezed affectionately.  I  replied, “ The pleasure is mine.”  His hand was larger than mine and still calloused from his labor as a stevedore.  And most importantly it was flesh, bone and sinew – not an apparition. 

                We said our goodbyes  and I started up the landside of the pier.  I glanced over my shoulder and he waved, still smiling, and then returned to his book.   Just before reaching the pier’s end I turned for one last look but the wooden bench was empty.  In fact the entire pier was empty and not a sign of life on any of the fishing boats.

                As I walked back to the hotel , the cup of coffee still in my hand, now cold, my mind rehearsed the phenomenal meeting.  Everything about the man, his looks, mannerisms and conversation demanded that he was a factual anomaly.  I couldn’t deny it.  And then I thought, if Eric had the power to come back from the dead and hold a conversation with a mortal, how come me?  Did he pick me?  But then I thought, it was more likely that I had picked him.  Some power I am unaware of, allowed it to happen, but why Eric Hoffer?  The answer was easy, he was probably my all-time favorite author and San Francisco was his home, his territory where he worked on the docks as a stevedore while sharing with the world in print, wisdom and enlightenment equivalent to the most famous philosophers the world has praised – and in a language easy to understand.  He never married, unless it was to the books he read and wrote.  He never sought accolades, never had the desire to hobnob with celebrities or the great minds (intellectuals) as great as his own.  His friends were of the proletarian class, people like himself.  On the docks you would not have been able to distinguish from the other stevedores unless it was lunch time.  Then you would see him sitting by himself on a box reading a book.  He was an ordinary man with an extraordinary mind, one of the common folk – and proof positive that insight and knowledge is not the sacred realm of the upper class (aristocrats).   

                I didn’t say anything to my wife, who is actually more spiritual than me.  In fact I have not shared this story with anyone until now.  And I’m only telling it now because I’m in those twilight years and am setting my affairs in order.  You can believe me or believe me not – it doesn’t matter to me – but it happened and I can’t explain it.

                I have often reminisced over that brief meeting with Eric, and have reread his books.  Sometimes when I read and underlined his brilliant one-liners I thought I could smell cigar smoke. 

                One-liners, aphorisms, was Eric’s style.  He had the uncanny skill of conveying volumes in one or two sentences.  Here’s a couple so you’ll know what I mean:

                “The search for happiness is one of the chief sources of unhappiness”

                If you ponder the above aphorism and connect with its truth, you could write a lengthy essay explaining and expanding upon its veracity. 

                “The misery of a child is interesting to a mother, the misery of a young man is interesting to a young woman, the misery of an old man is interesting to nobody.”

                My generation are all old men and women.  Near where I live is a Golden Corral restaurant and each day they have a senior citizens menu between 1 and 3 pm.  During that period the restaurant is filled with old men and women – none of which even pays attention to each other.  But every once in awhile some old guy is wearing a hat identifying him as a War II, Korea or Viet Nam veteran.  The wealthier you are or the more important you were when younger, the more interesting you are as an old man.  But if you are like most of us, just average hard working guys, no one is really interested unless it is your posterity, and even then the interest is nominal.  Some of us old guys have weathered aging better than others.  Some are hunched over and on their faces, the moles, wrinkles and blotches are symbols of the life they lead.  We don’t know what contributions these old folks made towards our liberty, our comfort and our dignity.  So I try to treat each old man the same, as if he parachuted in beyond the shores of Normandy June 6, 1944, or he survived the Battle of Chosin Reservoir, Nov. and Dec., 1950.  There are so many really interesting stories behind these old men, untold stories that they will take to their graves.

                “Far more critical than what we know or do not know is what we do not want to know.”

                “It almost seems that nobody can hate America as much as native Americans.  Americans needs new immigrants to love and cherish it.”

                Most of Hoffer‘s observation about the nature of man occurred after War II and the Sixties revolution, the era of the flower children.  But the above statement is as true today as it was in the Sixties.  Take a look at the social democrats and the Wall Street protesters and the miscreants that burn our flag.

                “It is by its promise of power that evil attracts the weak.”

                Passionate hatred can give meaning to an empty life.

                Our ears, it seems, are wonderfully attuned to sneers and evil reports about our fellow men.

                Propaganda does not deceive people; it merely helps them to deceive themselves. 

                Take away hatred from some people, and you have men without faith.

                The leader has to be practical and a realist, yet must talk the language of the visionary and the idealist.

                And isn’t that what we are seeing now in the GOP presidential race, the Tea Party and religious right demanding vision and ideals, only their vision and ideals, even if it means defeat? 

                “If you tell an absurd story often enough and elegant enough, there will always be people who believe it.”  Sardonic Sam.