John Fox

John Fox was my hero. He wrote the first book that really grabbed my heart and never let go. It was called The Boys on the Rock. When I read it the month it came out, in 1984, I was just a kid. But I was so moved and excited by this book, about a character that I came to love, with an uncertain ending so much like life.
I wrote him a silly fan letter, thanking him for his book. And shockingly, he wrote me back. We began this crazy correspondence – this was pre-​internet and email – and I developed a huge crush on him. He taught me so much in so many ways in those letters.
Eventually, though, the notes slowed and nearly stopped. I became concerned about him and wrote one last letter, telling him he could stop being nice, but I just needed to know he was ok.
And I got The Letter. John had been diagnosed with AIDS and had been sick. I was devastated. Our friendship via written word intensified, and he admitted he had a crush on this crazy kid in Ohio, too. We agreed to meet for one beautiful spring weekend in Washington DC, equidistant from our homes. Our planes arrived in Dulles at adjacent gates, minutes apart.
I was so nervous I thought I’d throw up – my hero, staring at me in the airport with those intense writer’s eyes. We had the best time that weekend, finding his book in a bookstore and building a little display for it, and wandering through a magnificent Matisse show at the East Building, wandering around Dupont Circle and the Mall and Air & Space.
From there, our correspondence continued, with letters and packages back and forth, news and chatter, but eventually they slowed and then trickled to nothing again, over the course of perhaps 6 months. So I wrote again, asking for reassurance he was OK.
And his mom wrote me back. He was gone. She called her son «brave, like a warrior» and asked how I knew him.
I wrote her a long letter and told her exactly what her son meant to me, and about our friendship. I mentioned we had exchanged gifts, that I had made a little silver ring with a dog cut into it. She told me she had wondered where he got that ring, he wore it up until those final days and when he died it was with him in a little pouch.
She sent it back to me, and it’s a little treasure for me, still. He is gone, but he will never be forgotten. He only wrote one book, but to me, it’s The Book. The one that showed me that art can move you and change you and live all on its own, after we breathe our life into it.
Thank you John, this world misses you.