I came out of the post office and there
was Bernie Stapleton talking on a pay phone.
Bernie had been hiding from me for seven years.
I had loaned him a thousand dollars for an emer-
gency and I never heard from him again. He wasn’t
sure if I had recognized him, so he turned his
back to me and hung his head down. Bernie didn’t
know what it was to earn a living. He just moved
from one scam to another, narrowly evading the
law. But I had always had a soft spot in my
heart for Bernie. I waited at a certain distance
for him to get off the phone. I knew he was
sweating blood. ?Bernie,? I said, ?where have
you been? I’ve missed you.? He was massively
uncomfortable. “I’ve been away. I’ve been running
an investment firm in the Bahamas. Yeah, I’ve
missed you too. How’ve you been?? ?Well, to
tell you the truth, I’m kind of down on my luck,?
I said, which was a lie. ?Maybe I could help
you out, Simon. If you could come up with, say,
a couple hundred bucks, I could turn it into
something substantial real fast,? he said.
Bernie never changed. Everything around us was
changing so fast I couldn’t keep up, and there was
Bernie at the pay phone making nickel and dime
deals the way he’s always done. ?I think I
could come up with that much,? I said. ?Then
meet me here tomorrow at three. A little favor
for an old friend, that’s the least I can do.?
Bernie was standing tall now. He really believed
he was an investment banker in the Bahamas,
and not some scuzzy little rat holed up in
Shutesbury without a pot to piss in. I admired that
to no end. ?Thanks, Bernie, I’ll see you
tomorrow,? I said.
—James Tate
James Tate was the author of many books of poetry, including The Worshipful Company of Fletchers, which won the National Book Award in 1994. He died in 2015.
