Arthur Spiegelman

I want to see him roll his eyes up toward the sky again, just for a second, right before he laughs that goofy laugh, right before he says one of the smartest things you’ve ever heard.

I want to see him lumbering forward, shuffling really, his suit wrinkled and worn out, desperate to find a suitable way to hang off that awkward, Brer Bear frame of his.

I want to hear him talk about Charlotte again, about that complicated relationship they had, that relationship that lasted all those years, in all those places, through children and houses and places and things, that deep level of love and understanding that only people who are meant to be together can ever share.

I want to sit in the pub and listen to him tell those stories, those glorious stories about newsmen and newswomen, about actors and politicians, about pulling the wool over the eyes of the suits, about loving the job and the profession you chose to spend your life doing, and doing it better than anyone else around you could ever dream of doing it.

Arthur Spiegelman was Reuters - at least in America. The rest of us were just players on his stage.

He was kind and smart and fun and loveable. He was classy and silly, all at the same time. He was one of the most amazing writers I ever met. But he was even more amazing as a human being. His struggle over the last few years was nothing short of heroic.

I am hurting and I am angry.

I want Arthur back, goddammit. I want him back right now. ■