For as long as I’ve had a computer, I’ve saved just about everything. For almost twenty years, I’ve neatly organized thousands of photos, dance videos, promotional materials, and stories I’ve written, and before I had my estate sale last year, I put them all on an external hard drive with the intent of backing everything up online, almost four terabytes of worth of data. But before that could happen, I dropped the damn hard drive on my driveway and broke it.

I took the hard drive to a repair shop, and the guy did the best he could, but said I’d have to send it off. He said that used to, if part of a hard drive broke, you could just replace that part. But he said that companies got wise, and in order to make more money, they started assigning all the parts a code, and all the codes have to match. So he said I could probably still recover the data, but it could cost up to $1,500 in order to purchase the codes.

I’ve been in this mode lately of trying to think of my life as more mystical, more connected to the universe. And part of my having the estate sale was to demonstrate in a rather dramatic way that I was willing to let go and start a new life. So I kind of took the hard drive drop as the universe saying, “Let go more.” And although many times over the last several months I’ve had moments that looked a lot like, “Oh no, that story I wrote about my mom was on there,” I mostly have reminded myself to keep breathing. As my therapist says, “There’s nothing wrong with this moment.”

Well, I had a moment last week that I thought was definitely wrong, and it’s the moment I realized that the only photo I had of Paul was on that hard drive, and that thought made me really sad. Of all the files, I thought, it’s the only one that really mattered.

***

I met Paul Montgomery in December of 2006, a little over two months after I first opened my dance studio, Momentum Dance Concepts, in Van Buren. I was still living with Mom and Dad (like now), and I was in the kitchen when he called. He introduced himself as another dance instructor, said he lived in Fort Smith, I think, and asked if we could get together to “talk shop.”

So we met at Western Sizzlin in Fort Smith.

As it turns out, Paul had heard about me and the studio while he was eating at Firehouse Subs. Before I opened the studio, I’d taught dance at Mercy Fitness Center, and two of my students, apparently, worked at Firehouse Subs. Well, they were excited about swing dancing, and maybe they were talking about it, or maybe they were practicing behind the deli counter, and Paul asked them where they learned, and they told him about me. Random, I know.

Whenever I saw Paul, he almost always looked the same: dark pants, nothing fancy, always a mustache, sometimes a ball cap. I figured he was twenty or thirty years my senior. I was twenty-six.

I don’t remember what I ordered to eat that day at Western Sizzlin, but I remember Paul saying something like, “That sounds good, make it two,” and he bought lunch. As I recall, we talked for three hours, and although it was readily apparent that Paul’s experience in the world of ballroom dancing far surpassed mine, I never felt condescended to. Instead, I felt shared with and taught. He explained professional competitions. He drew a diagram of Line of Dance (the invisible oval that goes counterclockwise around the dance floor, used for Waltz, Foxtrot, Two-Step, etc.) on a lavender sheet of paper, pointing out how everything related to that line, the four walls of the room, and the center of the floor. For over ten years, I kept that sheet in a folder with other important dance notes at the studio.

Paul and I bonded quickly. We spent a lot of time at the studio, and he started working with me professionally, teaching me patterns and techniques in Cha Cha and Jive. He taught my friend Fern and me how to Quickstep. I remember having so much fun. When my life-long friend Malia (another dance instructor) and I were getting ready for a swing dance performance, Paul worked with us to clean things up, gave us pointers to make things sparkle. Both Malia and I kept asking all these questions—What about this?—What about that? And every time Paul just said, “I’ll take care of you.” And then he’d say it again, “I’ll take care of you.”

I know that sometimes I paid Paul for teaching me, but sometimes I didn’t. I also know that what I did give him was probably a fraction of what he charged other people, certainly a fraction of what he was worth. I mean, Paul had made a living teaching other professional teachers. And whereas I was able to offer the studio to him to teach some of his existing clients, it was still a far cry from a balanced deal.

Several years ago, I got into a conversation with my friend Justin. I think it had to do with a relationship I was in. (See “a Mexican soap opera.” It was that guy.) Anyway, Justin said, “Marc (a few people get to call me Marc), in this life there are givers and takers.” I nodded my head. And then Justin said, “You’re a taker.” Well, I’m not sure that’s true, at least all the time. Who would admit that? I think everyone is both at one point or another. But when it came to Paul, I was definitely the taker, or perhaps better stated, the recipient of his generosity.

Paul and I saw each other at least once a week. He seemed really private, rather mysterious. It was pretty obvious that he drove a beat-up car, what was once probably a lovely color of gold. And I gathered that he stayed maybe in a garage apartment with a friend who was a pastor, that he taught dance in Fort Smith, but I guess out of town too, since he sometimes went to Tulsa. For a while, I kind of wondered if he was a spy, or maybe a guardian angel of some sort, since he was so cloak-and-dagger and didn’t seem to have a phone number. I mean, he would always call me to set things up, but I never had a number to call him back.

As the weeks went by, Paul started to say more about himself. He’d been in a car accident, I think. There was maybe a lawsuit. And maybe the accident was the reason he’d stopped dancing for a while, sold all his competition clothes. And now he was getting back into it. So I started thinking he was a real person, not someone who walked through walls after we finished our mozzarella sticks at the restaurant just up the street from the studio. I remember around Christmas, Paul talked about his family, which he didn’t normally do. He said they’d all get together for the holidays, and each of his siblings would come with a talent—singing, dancing, I don’t know, magic tricks. I thought it sounded glorious, since my family didn’t do that.

In January of 2006, I attended a reunion for a summer camp I used to work at in Mississippi. I remember getting sick when I was there, starting to lose my voice. But I just kept using it because I was so excited to see my friends. Here’s a picture of a group of us that entertained the campers back in the day as The Campstreet Boys. This was taken just after we performed our comeback tour at the reunion.

When I got back from Mississippi, I remember getting together with Paul. He’d copied off a couple pages from a natural healing book or something. It was information about olive leaf extract. I don’t remember it helping, but that sort of thing was right up my alley back then, and I loved that we had that in common and that, once again, he wanted to help me.

I watched a video online today about a marketing guru. He was taking calls from people, fielding questions. And it’s just the guy’s personality, and I think he’s really smart, but he was practically shouting every answer. And it made me think that it really didn’t matter what he was saying, it sounded convincing. Well, Paul, didn’t shout, ever, but he had this way of delivering information that ensured maximum impact and memorability. Once we were standing outside in the cold, and I guess I’d thought we’d only talk for a moment, but it ended up being over an hour. So we were both shivering, and then Paul said, “Did you know that if a person is stuck in absolute freezing temperature that there’s a way he can heat his body to the point of sweating, entirely on his own?” And I was fascinated, thinking it was probably something monks or Jedis do, but Paul said just said goodnight and walked away. He never told me the answer.

In February, I remember going to IHOP with Paul. I know exactly what booth it was. It was one of our marathon conversations, and the waitress kept coming over, interrupting, asking Paul if he wanted more to drink. So finally Paul says, “Tell you what, don’t come back over here. If I want more to drink, I’ll flag you.” So she walks off, and Paul’s face breaks into this big smile, his teeth framed underneath his dark mustache.

And then this conversation happened. I can’t tell you how it started or ended, but I remember Paul saying, “You see how I’ve given to you.” And I said, “Yes.” And he said, “That’s how you should give to other people.”

I think I saw him once after that. I remember us standing in the back of the studio, in the kitchen. Maybe he was there. Maybe it was just me and I was on the phone with him. The fact that I can’t remember suddenly bothers me. It feels like when you lose your favorite ring or some treasured object. But either way, I do remember standing there, and I remember Paul saying, “I’ll call you Monday.” So it was probably a Friday or Saturday, which seems right because I went to a birthday party that weekend for my friend Emily. And I remember because the weather was terrible, and on the drive home from Fayetteville, the road was covered in ice. I had to stop three times to scrap ice off my windshield wipers.

Well, despite the fact that Paul always did what he said he would do, he didn’t call on Monday. I never spoke to him again.

I guess Tuesday or Wednesday, I was in the room I grew up in, sleeping in my twin bed, and it was beside the window, and my nightstand was in front of the window. And when I woke up, I looked at my phone on my nightstand, and I had a message from my friend Eugenia, who used to work for the photographer who owned the building where the dance studio was. They were downstairs, and I was upstairs. So I called Eugenia back, and she said it was in the paper. She said, “Your friend died. Your friend Paul.”

My friend.

My friend Paul.

My friend Paul died.

Even as I type this, I’m crying. Eleven years have gone by, and it feels like I just got off the phone with her. I don’t know that before she said it I’d even stopped to think about or label it. Paul was my friend.

Honestly, that part means even more now than it did then. Since starting therapy, a lot of my friendships have changed, and so many of them have ended. Now more than ever, the friends who are intelligent, loyal, kind, giving, funny, and talented are really, really hard to find, especially in the no-drama department. Yes, a good friend is everything.

As it turns out, Paul had a heart attack. He got himself to the emergency room, but he didn’t make it. The obituary said he was 59. He had three sisters and two stepbrothers. Also, there were a couple things he’d never mentioned. First, his real name was Richard Ray. Paul Montgomery was his stage name, his name in the world of dance and the performing arts. Second, he had a son who lived in another state. I’m guessing he was about my age.

That week I walked around in a fog. I remember going down to the studio alone, practicing Cha Cha steps he’d taught me, almost all of which I’ve now forgotten, I’m sad to say. In the corner of the room, there was his boom box that he’d used to teach, since he still used a lot of tapes, and I only had a CD player. In the other corner, by the sound system, there was a small CD holder of his, full of music and some of his notes. And back by the boom box, there were his dance shoes, solid black, still shining, empty.

Maybe just the week before, my friend Megan had sent me a CD with a bunch of international music on it. The song that caught my attention was “Tengo la Camisa Negra” (“I Have a Black Shirt”) by Juanes. It’s nice for a slow Cha Cha. I listened to it over and over and over again the week that Paul died. I listened to it on the way to his funeral. Even now, I think of him every time I hear it or play it for one my students to dance to. The two are forever melded together in my mind, even though as far as I know, he never heard it.

At the funeral, I had the opportunity to speak about Paul, about the fact that he was my first-ever mentor, what a difference he made in my life, and how he taught me to give. Afterwards, his family invited me to eat with them, and they told stories about Paul, although they called him Richard, or Ray, I think. In the weeks that followed, I found out that Paul knew one of my friends, a local artist. They were in an artist group together.

And whereas I loved hearing all the stories and I would gladly welcome more, there are times that I still like to think of Paul as a guardian angel, someone a little less human than the rest of us, proof that there’s something out there that sends miracles into the lives of people like me, people who need a little help, guidance, and encouragement, even if they don’t know they do.

But I’m sure the fact is that Paul was quite human. I can only assume there was probably a divorce at some point, a reason his own son was never mentioned, and maybe that had something to do with the fact that he gave so much to me and never asked anything in return. (Again, I’m just speculating.) And perhaps that’s more beautiful, the idea that any one of us, despite any flaws we may have, can rise to the status of mentor and friend in the life of another. What a beautiful thing.

When Malia and I later performed that swing dance routine, I wore Paul’s shoes. I remember they were tight, a little small for me, and the sole started to pull off. So afterwards, I had them repaired, and I never wore them again.

I wish I could remember more of the steps Paul taught me. I wish I’d recorded them. But that was before everyone had a video camera, and Paul didn’t like being recorded. Later, another dance teacher in town gave me a video from a class she’d taken with him, but he isn’t in it. It’s just his students, demonstrating his move with his voice in the background.

For a while, it scared me that I couldn’t remember patterns he’d taught me. What if I didn’t get everything I needed? But then I remembered this time that Paul was getting ready to teach a dance lesson to a new couple. And before they got there, he started playing music on his boom box. And I said, “You turn the music on before they get here?” And he just smiled and said, “You’ll learn.”

I’ve since come to see that one of the greatest gifts Paul gave me was his faith in me. Honestly, I think few dancers give that to each other because most of us are so insecure and concerned for ourselves that it’s hard to give to someone else, to help them come up. But that wasn’t a problem for Paul. And he was right. I had the studio for eleven years, and I learned. And everything turned out all right.

Eleven years later, the two things that continue to guide me are “I’ll take care of you” and “That’s how you should give to other people.” For a while, I thought that “I’ll take care of you” was a good way to think about God. Like, I always have a million questions, and God’s sitting up there going, “I’ve got this. Let me do my job.” But lately I’ve also been thinking that “I’ll take care of you” is a perfect motto to have for myself because there have been so many shit things that have happened over the years, so many times I didn’t know how to stand up for myself, care for myself, and love myself. So what better thing than to be able to look at the person in the mirror and let him know that I’ve always got at least one friend, and I’m not going anywhere.

Sometimes when I tell the story of Paul, I get these funny looks or responses that go like, “What would an older man want with someone your age?” And I get that, but it always pisses me off because it didn’t have anything to do with that at all. Once Paul told Malia and me, “I’m not gay, but I’m not prejudice.” And I kind of hate that I’m even including this paragraph, but I guess I am because if you’ve never been the recipient of an unconditional type of love, if you’ve never had a mentor, you’re probably going to be suspicious of things like kindness.

Last Saturday, I blogged about a fantastic night of dancing. (See “happier than a pig in a shed.”) And all I can tell you is that Paul was there. I don’t mean his literal spirit was there, although I think that’s possible. But I do mean that the spirit he passed on to me was there. I mean that he taught me to give, so that’s what I did whenever a kid would come up to me and say, “Will you teach me more?” And I can’t tell you the number of people over the years who had free or cheaper or longer dance lessons, or were simply the recipient of a more patient instructor, all because I knew Paul. And if anyone’s ever heard me say, “Don’t forget to breathe,” that came from him too.

Good news: Last week, I remembered that I saved a CD with the picture of Paul on it. It was the only disk of pictures I kept, and his was the only picture on the disk. Yesterday, I backed it up in five different locations.

Eleven weeks. That was how long Paul and I knew each other. And I can’t tell you why it all happened the way it did, why Paul happened to wander into Firehouse Subs and overhear two people who happened to be my students talking about dancing. But I’m glad it did. And whenever I start thinking that life sucks and nothing good ever happens, I just have to remember that. Miracles happen. And I hate that I didn’t know Paul longer, but I’m over-the-moon with gratitude and humility that I knew him. God, it has made the biggest difference.

[Paul, if I never said it before, thank you. Thank you for being my teacher, mentor, and friend. Thank you for being my guardian angel. Thank you for giving.]