My Amigo Mike
In 1971 I transitioned from high school to college by way of a summer in Cleveland. That was the summer the Cuyahoga River caught fire and the summer I learned how to fend for myself. I arrived in Cleveland from Rome, Italy, where I had lived for three years, skipping over the all-important Woodstock to Kent State years of American life. I promptly rented a room in a fraternity house on the campus of Case Western Reserve University, where I would work for the summer in the Department of Sociology as research assistant. I’m not sure why I was doing this, but it seemed like a fine way to transition to college life at the time.
After a summer spent spent coding Sociological research forms about the sexual habits and attitudes of inner-city adolescents, and a summer spent dating two of the secretaries in the Department and going to a big outdoor Cat Stevens concert (my first concert when asked that question by security checklists), I was ready for college. So I hitched a ride to Ithaca to start school. Most college freshman get driven to school by mom and dad. Mom makes junior’s bed and dad ogles the freshman girls. I arrived at U-Halls 4 in a local cab with my army jacket and my duffle bag like I was enlisting in the army. My hair and sideburns were long and my experience level was short.
After meeting my roommate John Plunkett from Ireland (some braintrust in the student housing area had decided two expat guys would have lots in common), I looked out my dorm room hall at the beehive of parental activity on the hall. It was quite a sight. Everyone had hospital corners on their bedsheets except me. And from across the hall came the comment from a frizzy-headed friendly guy with what I would come to know was a distinctly Long Island accent, “Hey, you’re from Rome, New York, right?”
That same student housing genius had put everyone’s name and whereabouts on a placard on their dorm room door. There it was, Rich – Rome and John – Dublin. I looked at the door across the hall and it said Mark – Wantagh and Mike – Yorktown Heights. Mark had asked the question with a broad grin and a set of what he characterized as “agenetic” teeth. My answer was some version of, “uh, no, I’m from Rome, Italy but I’m not really Italian.” Mark, who was a talented English Major and even more talented pre-med student who became a cardiologist, said, “that’s ok, I’m from Long Island but I’m not really Jewish.” His name was Mark Cohen and he was more right about that comment than I had any ability to realize at the time.
It was at that moment that Mike Parkinson, a skinny, almost wiry guy emerged from behind him with an even broader grin and an infectious laugh, That was his opportunity to say, “Well, I’m from Connecticut, but I live in Westchester and I’m not a WASP, unless you count my grandma, who still thinks the Germans should have won the war.” That was the icebreaker that got us all laughing and started a friendship that has lasted the last going on fifty years.
Some on the freshman floor have faded from view, but many have stayed friends all these years because a whole bunch of us joined the same fraternity. Those who joined included Robbie, Henry, Jim, Steve, Mark, Gary and Cliff. The names of those who didn’t go our way included Ben, Bill, Mark, John, Frank, and God knows who else. But Mike was the anomaly. Mike went his own way, but stayed friends with us all nonetheless. Mike always marched to the beat of a different drummer and taught me the value of finding one’s own path in life.
Where most of my fellow students could be boxed as pre-med, pre-law, engineers, architects or destined for grad school, Mike defied stereotyping. He was a smart guy who kept his options open. He took pre-med courses as well as pre-law courses as well as courses that simply interested him. He seemed unbound by convention and therefore defied definition. I was much the same, but by mere happenstance. Mike was a nonconformist by design.
Mike spent his freshman year with a girl named Debbie. It may have been his best contribution to the floor of all the fine things he brought to the group. But Mike was like Tristen (Brad Pitt) in Legends of the Fall, he could not be harnessed by any one person. He had the mark of the bear about him and needed to walk his own path alone, much to the chagrin of Debbie, who spent much of college trying to persuade him otherwise while the rest of us tried to persuade her otherwise yet again.
Mike was the only guy I knew who took both the MCAT’s and the LSAT’s and applied to both medical and law school. Such was his commitment to non-committal education. He did well enough and had good enough grades and the sparkling personality/wit to get himself admitted to both with distinction. He chose med school for reasons of the AFROTC scholarship made available to him to pay his way. I remember visiting him once in Washington DC during those med school days and wondering if the science experiment underway in the grungy corner of his bathroom was part of the curriculum. He went on to be a flight surgeon and traveled the world with the same spirited enthusiasm and carefree manner that he had displayed in college. When asked what he did in the Air Force, he would say that by virtue of his assignment as physician to the Kissinger Commission, he had become the world’s expert on travelers diarrhea and high altitude sickness. Such was his unassuming manner.
Mike is still my great amigo even though I only occasionally see him (he lives in Pittsburgh with his wife and son). Very few people can get me as pleasantly engaged with a simple call or email like Mike can. It goes to the old thought that it’s not the quantity of interaction, but the quality that makes the difference. Mike always makes me feel in the moment and that we are the best friends ever. That is a quality few possess. Once when I came back to U-Hall 4 after a horseback riding episode, Mike made a noise like a horse and told me I smelled like a Palomino. Invoking Dale Evans is always a winning strategy. That memory of Mike has stayed with me all these years. Thinking of Mike just brings a smile to my face. It’s a shame more people can’t have that same effect on us.