He was a man with many things to say, and he found himself saying them unprompted, wherever he was. Sometimes, advice on which item to put back when the old man in front of him in the grocery line found himself a dollar or two short. Sometimes, in the middle of a sunny afternoon over beers, ideas to improve the businesses of his friends. To children in the street he said, "Don't run so fast" or "Listen to your mother" or "Treasure this time, kid."

He felt very strongly the things he said, and he chose his words with care. By the time he'd formed a thought, a little piece of advice for a friend or relative or stranger, he could feel the force of conviction pushing the words out of his mouth with an uncontrollable desire. His phrasing was blunt, never couched in gentle syntax. He never started a sentence with "It might be a good idea..." or "have you ever considered..." or even "You should..." He spoke only in imperatives: "Sell more items at the front counter; impulse buys give you extra money each month." "Be careful with your mother's feelings. She's sensitive." And more often than not, he spoke these imperatives without even an explanation; their truths, he felt, were self-evident enough.

Keep out of the sun. Travel while you can. Always leave them wanting more.

His friends liked him, and they valued his opinion, and they forgave his eccentricities, as friends do. But they did not always follow his advice.

Advice unfollowed seemed to him such a waste. His time and his thoughts were valuable and there was no telling when unheeded words might be required again for another wayward soul. With this in mind he took to writing his imperatives down. At dinner, he'd advise on the proper amount of salt for each dish, then excuse himself and go to the bathroom or the lobby where he'd pull out a little notebook and jot down what he'd just said. He was spotted at parties in the hallway engaged in this curious activity. He became known for it, another eccentricity subject to the gentle kidding of his friends. He filled page after page.

Of course, of course he made plans to publish his little book. He wrote:

Enclosed, find my manuscript, The Book of Imperatives. Read at your leisure. Discover its warmth, its plainspoken practicality, its value for many segments of the reading population-the idle with time on their hands, the young (so impressionable, so close to being led astray), their parents who want the best but feel lost, the powerful (who though they must exude strength and conviction, must also be in need of straight, simple advice). Read carefully, and write me back as soon as possible.

To his landlord at the mailbox he said, don't check the mail every day when you're expecting something. Give yourself time to forget, or else the anticipation will eat you up inside.

To a friend on the job hunt, he said: always follow up with a letter or a phone call. Visit the office if you can, even if you have to travel. Send a thank-you note even if you receive a rejection, as a courtesy. Leave a pleasant memory behind you wherever you go.

At his nephew's birthday party, he told the child: try asking again at Christmas for the gift you wish you'd gotten. Be persistent, but always say you're happy with what you have. Leave a little room for wistful longing, enough to make them want to give you what you want.

He wrote, Consider this revised draft. Notice how many more pages of wisdom have been added. Wonder: can you truly deprive the world of these essential truths, so lovingly compiled in such pithy lines? Doesn't the world need some help?

The lost, the lonely world.

His friends remembered fondly his advice at a wedding: don't fill in the last page of your scrapbook. Leave the future open. Don't miss me too much, he'd said when he left for New York, to seek out publishers. He sent postcards full of practical travel advice every week, at first from New York, then from Maryland, then from Barbados. The locations changed erratically, and the postcards started coming with less frequency: at first every two weeks, then every month, then every few months. Years after he'd gone missing, his friends puzzled over his last few postcards: visit here, they said, skip this state, dress in layers for this landmark. They looked for clues. There had to be clues to where he'd be next, why he'd gone. Always look for clues, he'd said.

Where did he end up? Years later, at a funeral for one of his friends, the rest stood around the grave, the wind gently pulling at their clothes. They searched each other's faces. There was no one there to tell them what to feel.


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