Alberto D. Hetman
04-15-2009, 02:59 PM
The original story is "Meeting with Tom Hanks", but I had specially adapted it to Ligotti.net.
Meeting with
Tom Ligotti
I was waiting for the bus on a corner. It was at night. A traffic light at the corner changed colors normally, there was no damage to the mechanism, nor it delayed in the green or the red light more than expected. While I was waiting, and minutes were going by, I thought (as I always do) that as much in the mechanism as in life there is no divine design. On having changed to a red light, a car stopped by the corner. It was not a sudden braking, it seems that the driver was not in any hurry to get to his house or an appointment. The window was lowered and a fellow getting closer to it but without sticking out his head, told me: "Hello, How quiet is the city at this hour! Is it always like that?" I still remember the exact words. I recognized Tom Ligotti in that face. It was not that of a stranger that one sees only once in a lifetime. I asked: "Are you Tom Ligotti?" I also remember it. "Yes, have you read some of my books?" He said. I might have named him some but I told him as an answer that I never thought I would talk with someone as famous as him in all my life. Ligotti simply smiled. He shook my hand without being able to ever understand the meaning of this gesture. The traffic light suddenly changed color. Ligotti smiled again but said nothing. He started the car and left. The car was lost in the distance.
Of all the people I knew I was the only one to whom something really important had happened in his life. For this insignificant fact they envied my good luck. An insignificant fact? It could be ... but it was something mine, that had happened to me. In any case, it was insignificant, yes, but that had turned out to be wonderful. They made it evident in meetings when I was asked to narrate it again although they had already heard it a thousand times. An anecdote that I was already rehearsing with gestures of the face, or coordinated movements of the hands and torso imitating like a novice mime a real actor of Hollywood.
I realized, over the years, that people to whom I narrated this anecdote were not satisfied with just knowing the facts (as they happened), that as you have seen they are rather simple. I had to add other "invented" facts to the "real" ones, "embellish the story a little" as they say in these cases, if you like. In a few years this story had been changing, sometimes some facts were replaced by others (that was always very common on me), or some facts were narrated differently to let my listeners feel more comfortable with a more elaborate version rather than with a simple one. I owe everything to a friend who told me: "it could not have just happened like that". He would not be the first to understand that the simpler the truths are the less accepted they are. I asked him: "And how should it have happened?" And thus altering an anecdote for another (who cares at the end), people either approved with a quick look at me, or distending muscles relaxing little by little to listen to me.
I plan to write a book entitled: "Meeting with Tom Ligotti", whose chapters I briefly narrate on the following lines. Those who have read these few handwritten pages, barely 5, which are just a sketch, suggested me to find another profession. The cover of the book would have a portrait of Ligotti, drawn with a pencil, which I had done on a Sunday afternoon so long ago.
A story gets boring if it is read again and again; this story, on the contrary, was never the same, it was as changing as life itself. New details to tell were always found, or to refine those already narrated, or to alter some (does the truth matter?). One version I have heard refers to that flat tire that I tenaciously would have changed on the corner where Ligotti stopped.
I have seen that many ask me to narrate this story over and over again. My Bingo friends ask me when we play, I am also asked at work and in the small restaurant Tony’s. I often listen to the story trying to find new mistakes on it, I again separate the "real" facts from the "fabricated" ones. In a photograph that I proudly displayed at the entrance to my house it reads: "... for (my last name) Tom". If we were as good friends as they say, why did not he call me by my first name? This is an example of mistakes that I no longer commit when narrating my anecdote.
I myself was guilty that my story was told in many versions. For example, I could not remember whether Tom Ligotti wore a tuxedo or casual clothes, or traveling alone or with someone else. I even forgot the color of his car. And I already doubted whether his car was lost in the distance or he simply had turned right, so to speak, a couple of blocks ahead. Whether it was night time or not? I do not remember. For this reason, in some versions it is usually narrated that my meeting with Ligotti was in mid-afternoon, the sun still falling on the low rise buildings, or if the sun was already gone, the sunset had that rusty red color, like burning the evening, of any other day in summer.
The discrepancies between the many versions usually appear between the last two facts. "Ligotti shook my hand" and the next one. It is said that after we shook hands we talked for several minutes, it is said that up to 10. While in other versions, the last fact is completely altered, or even replaced by a more refined one but false.
The versions of my acquaintances were the result of improbable deductions, crazy and wrong conclusions, and I could mention that of the mechanic who told that Ligotti drove me home when seeing that the bus was taking a long time to come. Others say that this mechanic would also have seen Ligotti on the same corner, but some other night. Some people say that I asked Ligotti a "little hand" to publish one of my stories, but this version has lost credibility over the years.
I remember the peculiar way in which Ligotti watched me. I would say that he looked at me with that wisdom which is given by knowing the world, travelling, or the love of women. "And how did he look at you?" One of my friends asked. I tightened my lips but not much, my eyes fixed on an imaginary point on the most distant wall of the room, narrowing my eyes to do so as I had seen once in a book of philosophy: Ligotti’s look was that of Descartes. I also imagined another look. Not that of Descartes, although I did not know for sure. It reminded me that blind Baptist pastor who spoke of faith, in whose dead and glassy eyes I would swear I had a quick look at infinity.
In my house I let whoever was about to enter know that I was an admirer of Tom Ligotti. One found dusty old books, autographed magazines, but dedicated to other people, framed photographs, magazines with articles on Ligotti’s stories, audiotapes of interviews, or whatever had belonged to him like a scarf, the shoes that he wore the day he got his famous award, or a wrist watch, and even (and who knows how it ended up in the hands of the fellow who sold it to me) an expired passport that I could not fail to consider it false.
At the funeral of another friend, the wife of the deceased asked me if I could ask Tom Ligotti (or her family would be in bankruptcy) fro some help. The answer was that I would try although everyone knew that the writer travelled a lot and new editions of his books left him with no so much time left for his close friends. Among many versions was the one that narrated that Ligotti had given me his phone number and told me that I could call him anytime, without thinking about it twice. It is sometimes heard, I heard of two versions, in which Ligotti had helped me. He was a man of his word.
That the writer had on his chest a greenish stone in which it was carved a symbol, I do not know; some say that it was the Greek letter π, bringing to mind Aronofsky’s film, while others assert that it was a Chinese pictograph or perhaps some rune (a Celtic rune that was a fashion on those days). As much the carved symbol carved as the green stone were invented, they would have appeared in a version that I have never narrated.
In my case I had heard a score of versions of my meeting with Ligotti, some wonder whether it really happened. In recent years the facts were narrated in different ways, sometimes mixed up or illogically, "adjusting" them to the circumstances, but sometimes I wonder if exaggerating the facts people would believe me.
For example:
• Judging by what I narrated, the meeting happened 20 to 25 years ago. If so Tom Ligotti would have been about 30 years in those days. Consequently he was not still known by his best short stories.
• Sometimes I placed it happening exactly 10 years ago, in that year I found out that Ligotti was in some other city, but not in mine.
• Ligotti’s phone does not belong to him, but to a company that sells life insurance. I was told that someone called.
I have thought of narrating a story about my meeting with another writer or any other famous personality, but I do not dare. Something like that cannot happen twice in a lifetime.
Meeting with
Tom Ligotti
I was waiting for the bus on a corner. It was at night. A traffic light at the corner changed colors normally, there was no damage to the mechanism, nor it delayed in the green or the red light more than expected. While I was waiting, and minutes were going by, I thought (as I always do) that as much in the mechanism as in life there is no divine design. On having changed to a red light, a car stopped by the corner. It was not a sudden braking, it seems that the driver was not in any hurry to get to his house or an appointment. The window was lowered and a fellow getting closer to it but without sticking out his head, told me: "Hello, How quiet is the city at this hour! Is it always like that?" I still remember the exact words. I recognized Tom Ligotti in that face. It was not that of a stranger that one sees only once in a lifetime. I asked: "Are you Tom Ligotti?" I also remember it. "Yes, have you read some of my books?" He said. I might have named him some but I told him as an answer that I never thought I would talk with someone as famous as him in all my life. Ligotti simply smiled. He shook my hand without being able to ever understand the meaning of this gesture. The traffic light suddenly changed color. Ligotti smiled again but said nothing. He started the car and left. The car was lost in the distance.
Of all the people I knew I was the only one to whom something really important had happened in his life. For this insignificant fact they envied my good luck. An insignificant fact? It could be ... but it was something mine, that had happened to me. In any case, it was insignificant, yes, but that had turned out to be wonderful. They made it evident in meetings when I was asked to narrate it again although they had already heard it a thousand times. An anecdote that I was already rehearsing with gestures of the face, or coordinated movements of the hands and torso imitating like a novice mime a real actor of Hollywood.
I realized, over the years, that people to whom I narrated this anecdote were not satisfied with just knowing the facts (as they happened), that as you have seen they are rather simple. I had to add other "invented" facts to the "real" ones, "embellish the story a little" as they say in these cases, if you like. In a few years this story had been changing, sometimes some facts were replaced by others (that was always very common on me), or some facts were narrated differently to let my listeners feel more comfortable with a more elaborate version rather than with a simple one. I owe everything to a friend who told me: "it could not have just happened like that". He would not be the first to understand that the simpler the truths are the less accepted they are. I asked him: "And how should it have happened?" And thus altering an anecdote for another (who cares at the end), people either approved with a quick look at me, or distending muscles relaxing little by little to listen to me.
I plan to write a book entitled: "Meeting with Tom Ligotti", whose chapters I briefly narrate on the following lines. Those who have read these few handwritten pages, barely 5, which are just a sketch, suggested me to find another profession. The cover of the book would have a portrait of Ligotti, drawn with a pencil, which I had done on a Sunday afternoon so long ago.
A story gets boring if it is read again and again; this story, on the contrary, was never the same, it was as changing as life itself. New details to tell were always found, or to refine those already narrated, or to alter some (does the truth matter?). One version I have heard refers to that flat tire that I tenaciously would have changed on the corner where Ligotti stopped.
I have seen that many ask me to narrate this story over and over again. My Bingo friends ask me when we play, I am also asked at work and in the small restaurant Tony’s. I often listen to the story trying to find new mistakes on it, I again separate the "real" facts from the "fabricated" ones. In a photograph that I proudly displayed at the entrance to my house it reads: "... for (my last name) Tom". If we were as good friends as they say, why did not he call me by my first name? This is an example of mistakes that I no longer commit when narrating my anecdote.
I myself was guilty that my story was told in many versions. For example, I could not remember whether Tom Ligotti wore a tuxedo or casual clothes, or traveling alone or with someone else. I even forgot the color of his car. And I already doubted whether his car was lost in the distance or he simply had turned right, so to speak, a couple of blocks ahead. Whether it was night time or not? I do not remember. For this reason, in some versions it is usually narrated that my meeting with Ligotti was in mid-afternoon, the sun still falling on the low rise buildings, or if the sun was already gone, the sunset had that rusty red color, like burning the evening, of any other day in summer.
The discrepancies between the many versions usually appear between the last two facts. "Ligotti shook my hand" and the next one. It is said that after we shook hands we talked for several minutes, it is said that up to 10. While in other versions, the last fact is completely altered, or even replaced by a more refined one but false.
The versions of my acquaintances were the result of improbable deductions, crazy and wrong conclusions, and I could mention that of the mechanic who told that Ligotti drove me home when seeing that the bus was taking a long time to come. Others say that this mechanic would also have seen Ligotti on the same corner, but some other night. Some people say that I asked Ligotti a "little hand" to publish one of my stories, but this version has lost credibility over the years.
I remember the peculiar way in which Ligotti watched me. I would say that he looked at me with that wisdom which is given by knowing the world, travelling, or the love of women. "And how did he look at you?" One of my friends asked. I tightened my lips but not much, my eyes fixed on an imaginary point on the most distant wall of the room, narrowing my eyes to do so as I had seen once in a book of philosophy: Ligotti’s look was that of Descartes. I also imagined another look. Not that of Descartes, although I did not know for sure. It reminded me that blind Baptist pastor who spoke of faith, in whose dead and glassy eyes I would swear I had a quick look at infinity.
In my house I let whoever was about to enter know that I was an admirer of Tom Ligotti. One found dusty old books, autographed magazines, but dedicated to other people, framed photographs, magazines with articles on Ligotti’s stories, audiotapes of interviews, or whatever had belonged to him like a scarf, the shoes that he wore the day he got his famous award, or a wrist watch, and even (and who knows how it ended up in the hands of the fellow who sold it to me) an expired passport that I could not fail to consider it false.
At the funeral of another friend, the wife of the deceased asked me if I could ask Tom Ligotti (or her family would be in bankruptcy) fro some help. The answer was that I would try although everyone knew that the writer travelled a lot and new editions of his books left him with no so much time left for his close friends. Among many versions was the one that narrated that Ligotti had given me his phone number and told me that I could call him anytime, without thinking about it twice. It is sometimes heard, I heard of two versions, in which Ligotti had helped me. He was a man of his word.
That the writer had on his chest a greenish stone in which it was carved a symbol, I do not know; some say that it was the Greek letter π, bringing to mind Aronofsky’s film, while others assert that it was a Chinese pictograph or perhaps some rune (a Celtic rune that was a fashion on those days). As much the carved symbol carved as the green stone were invented, they would have appeared in a version that I have never narrated.
In my case I had heard a score of versions of my meeting with Ligotti, some wonder whether it really happened. In recent years the facts were narrated in different ways, sometimes mixed up or illogically, "adjusting" them to the circumstances, but sometimes I wonder if exaggerating the facts people would believe me.
For example:
• Judging by what I narrated, the meeting happened 20 to 25 years ago. If so Tom Ligotti would have been about 30 years in those days. Consequently he was not still known by his best short stories.
• Sometimes I placed it happening exactly 10 years ago, in that year I found out that Ligotti was in some other city, but not in mine.
• Ligotti’s phone does not belong to him, but to a company that sells life insurance. I was told that someone called.
I have thought of narrating a story about my meeting with another writer or any other famous personality, but I do not dare. Something like that cannot happen twice in a lifetime.