This is a true story about a friend of mine named Robert. He was smart, popular and headed for success. But after returning home from the war in Vietnam, he tripped over a bottle. And life for Robert, and those who loved him, would never in be the same again. In his defense, it must have been really hard living up to the expectations of a father who was a powerful attorney and politician. I can’t imagine living in the same house with one of these damn political hypocrites. While my father was a cruel drunk, you didn’t have to ponder his sincerity or intentions. He didn’t even know the meaning of the word taciturn.

Robert might have been alright had he not been a perfectionist. He had to look and dress to the nines. He copied everything and everyone who made an impression on him. When you were with Robert, you were never sure of whom you were with. One day he looked and acted as if he were the Marlboro Man. The next time you saw him, your mind would race trying to remember who Robert reminded you of. Then it would come to you–he was Mr. Sunshine, the local TV weatherman. The next time it would be that ski champion who was on the cover of the latest issue of Sports Illustrated. I remember how we used to laugh and ask, “Robert who?” whenever someone would mention his name.

Robert had a nice home where he lived alone. The house was well furnished, and he kept it immaculate. I, like his other friends, seldom stopped by the house. I felt uneasy there. You could sense the loneliness. Somehow you knew that for every laugh that had echoed off the walls, ten lonely tears had fallen on the floor.

It is a travesty that Robert could not love himself as we did. He never knew how much we disliked the imitations. I have never known anyone who worked so hard at redoing that which everyone agreed was as it should be.

One day as several friends and I were having lunch, one asked, “What ever happened to Robert?” We looked at each other and waited for the answer, but no one seemed to know. That night I made a few calls, but neither family nor friends knew anything about Robert or they would not say.

The summers go by quickly in the mountains, and before you know it, the first snow is falling. It is then you remember why you suffer the awful summer traffic and tourists with more money than good judgment. It was the combination of blowing snow and the fact that I had nothing in particular to do that I pulled into the valet lane at my favorite casino. Within ten minutes, I had won an all-expense paid island vacation. And since I had nothing in particular to do, I was soon on my way to Club Tan…

I travel light so unpacking was a snap. Within twenty minutes of arriving I had signed-up for a half-day snorkeling trip. But by the time our little group arrived at the boat, the wind had picked up and our guide said that if we wanted to forego the snorkeling, he would take us on a tour of the island. We all agreed, crowded into an old mini van, and off we went. The guide was a pleasant, easy going, gingerbread looking man. In the cut-off jeans, Janice Joplin glasses and long gray hair, he certainly looked the part of an island guide. His narrative about the island and its inhabitants was wonderful.

It is possible that we missed a bar or a public restroom on this tour, but I doubt it. I am not sure who drove the van back to the hotel, but it was not the guide. He had passed out long before our last stop.

The doorman at the hotel laughed as I explained the guide’s situation. He said that the man lived behind the hotel, and that he would see that he got home safely. I took out a twenty-dollar bill and gave it to the doorman, saying, “Take extra good care of this man. His name is Robert, and he is my friend.”

Please note: Your comments, good, bad or indifferent are most welcome, but this writer would prefer that you emailed them. That way you can be as explicit as you like and offend no one.

More articles by Bob Miller

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