Michael Davis: Don’s A Friend
Don is a friend.
I wrote most of this some time ago but, as with about 20 other articles, told my editors not to run it until a suitable time of my choosing.
The first date I had for this was Christmas. I was going to London at Don’s invitation, but circumstances changed that. I was a bit bummed because Neil Gaiman and I would have hooked up and seen his play together. Rich Johnson had promised to take me to this private club he said I would enjoy. I wasn’t too keen on that until I googled the club. It wasn’t a brothel or a Satan worshiping club. If I told you the name, you’d have second thoughts too.
I then decided the day to run this would be on Father’s Day. Last week I changed my mind, so it’s running today.
I met my friend Don because of a favor. Don wanted to get Comic-Con tickets for some young family members. So, a mutual friend called me. Once I secured the tickets, I told the mutual friend where they could be picked up.
Don called me personally to thank me and asked if there was anything he could do for me. I thought that was nice but told him it wasn’t necessary. I meant that. I’m not a fan of the ‘you wash my back; I’ll wash yours’ way of doing things.
Fast forward, Don and I become friends. I’m at his LA home, and I’m drawn to a painting on the wall. I’m blown away by this work of art. I ask Don if the offer is still open to do something for me. Don says, “Anything.”
“Can I have this painting?” I ask. “Sure. It’s yours!” he answers. Then he realizes the painting I’m talking about.
“Sorry
, that one you can’t have.” He says. Before I can go into my stick about keeping your word and how devastated I am, Don says, “My father painted that.”I don’t know how long Don talked about his dad; it could have been 15 minutes or 12 hours; however long, it wasn’t long enough.
His father was a remarkable man
, and hearing Don talk was like hearing a voiceover to a Ken Burns documentary. What struck me wasn’t just Don’s love and respect for his dad but the pride he took in being his father’s son.I’ve never known my biological father. I thought my stepdad was my real dad. On Christmas Day
, I found out he was not. My aunt got mad at him and told me he wasn’t my father. I was 15, just old enough to know that’s gonna hurt more as you get older. It did because I idolized my stepdad.Listening to Don talk about his dad got me thinking again.
“So, no painting? How about you put in a good word and have your dad adopt me?” Don laughed and said, you can ask him yourself when you meet him.”
Don called me last Friday; his dad passed away.
It seemed surreal.
A moment before Don called, a water pipe had broken in my building; water gushing everywhere; the maintenance crew had just arrived, asking me questions while I was on the phone, I could hardly think.
Turning my back on everything and everyone, I asked Don for his dad’s service details and told him I’d be there regardless of a minor crisis I had to deal with. The line was dead. That often happened when Don and I spoke, but I had no idea how long it had been that way this time.
It occurred to me the massive amount of things Don had to deal with. I left a message but would understand if he couldn’t return my call.
I never met Don’s dad but felt his presence through his son, so I know I will miss him.
Don, my condolences to you and your family, may your dad rest in peace and power.
This was beautiful. I’ve never seen a tribute like this. Don must be quite a person (like his dad:) to spark this kind of thought,
I miss your point of view, Mr. Davis. An original thinker like you is hard to find. I pray you are in good health and spirit and hope we can see more of your work faster.