I Was There

Today is the anniversary of the death of Rocky Mountain News columnist Greg Lopez, who was killed by a hit-and-run driver on March 17, 1996, at the age of 35. I never met him – only knew him through his words, which I imagine is pretty close to the same thing. I thought it fitting to reprint this job application letter he sent in 1987 while working as a reporter in New Iberia, La., asking for a job at the Detroit News. He got the job. The letter comes from the fantastic anthology of his work, "What's Going On?" published posthumously by his wife.

Mr. Fancher: The place to start, I think, is the night Robert Mendoza walked into Papa Joe's with his ear in his stomach. I was there.

This is a long story, especially to begin an autobiography, but I think it explains a lot. It helps to explain why I am here, what I am like and how I think about things. I think it's a funny story.

Besides, this is the only chance I'll get to write about this, because Mendoza doesn't think it's funny.

About two years ago, Mendoza broke up with his girlfriend, and when he went to straighten things out he got in a fight with her new boyfriend. Somehow – the ex-girlfriend and her new boyfriend both say they didn't do it – the top of Mendoza's ear got bit off.

At the hospital, the doctors said they might be able to sew the ear back on, but they couldn't do it right away. To keep it fresh, they cut him open and put the bit-off part in his stomach. I don't know the medical reason behind it, but that is what they did.

Two days later, Howard Derouen, Papa Joe's son, went to visit Mendoza in the hospital. Papa Joe's bar is in Lydia, which is on the other side of New Iberia on the way from Detroit. Everybody at Papa Joe's had heard that Mendoza's ear was in his stomach, but nobody believed it.

Right here, you should know that Mendoza is the same Mendoza who came into Papa Joe's one night with the same look the night he came in with his ear in his stomach, but without the bandages. Howard asked him what was wrong. You should also know that the circus was in town that week.

Mendoza said, "I was driving down Johnson Street, and all of the sudden this truck pulls out in front of me and and I ran into it and wrecked my car. But that's not the worst of it."

Howard asked what was the worst of it.

Mendoza said, "You should have seen that old boy chasin' those monkeys."

Anyway, Mendoza asked Howard to sneak him out of the hospital for a Coke. When they walked in, William, who is another long story, walked over to Mendoza. He bent over to look straight into Mendoza's stomach and shouted, "How…are…you…doing?"

The point in all of this is not just that I think the stories a person likes tells a lot about the person.

The point isn't even that this could only happen here, although the odds in favor of that are pretty high.

The point in all of this is, of course, is I was there when Mendoza walked into Papa Joe's in Lydia with his ear in his stomach.

I grew up in Englewood, Colo., the son of an anesthesiologist and a housewife who used to be a reporter for the Denver Post. I am and have always been close to them.

My father was born in Maxwell, N.M., population about 400. His mother died when he was seven years old and his mother put him and his blind brother in boarding school in Raton, N.M. He went to Colorado College on the G.I. Bill and put himself through medical school by gardening at a home in the neighborhood where I grew up.

I admire my father more than anybody I know.

When I was 13 or 14, I read the autobiography of Gene Fowler, a reporter for the Denver Post and several other newspapers. A reporter seemed to be a great thing to be, and this was before I learned how to drink. Later, of course, it would all fall into place.

After that I never had to worry about what I wanted to do, only how to do it.

I got by in Cherry Creek High School. I made a lot of friends who are still my best friends. I developed a talent for fun, which is more of a talent than people realize.

At the University of Missouri, I refined the talent. The journalism school has a good reputation, and it probably deserves it. I thought and still think that journalists spend too much time with other journalists, so most of the friends I made majored in forestry.

More important than anything else, I learned how to recognize good writing – or what I consider good writing.

I told you in my last letter that I always wanted to live in a small town in the South, and I still don't know why. The story about Mendoza probably explains part of it. I have learned that it isn't fair to try to psychoanalyze people I write about, and I won't start here.

Here, though, is a good place to tell you some basic things about myself.

I avoid verbs ending in "-ing."

I wear socks to work since the memo came down. I have never missed a day of work. I don't want to be an editor. To me, that is like a young girl who wants to grow up to be Angela Lansbury.

I don't write stories to show how people are different. I try to show how people are the same.

In New Orleans for Mardi Gras last March, a waiter in a restaurant told us we couldn't just sit there and drink beer, we had to order food. I made a comment about a liquid diet, and he turned around and walked away. About two minutes later a cop grabbed me, told me I was under arrest for disturbing the peace. I said I thought that was the whole point of Mardi Gras.

It cost me $175.

The Mardi Gras before that in New Orleans, I broke my left hand in three places when I fell off a mechanical bull.

I am a Catholic. Religion can't count for me or against me, but it is important enough to me to be a necessary part of my autobiography. At least, I hope it is.

I don't hit and run. After I write about somebody, I try to call or go to see them. I don't use people for a story.

There was this time I was in the buffet line behind Gov. Edwin Edwards, when a man in a cook's hat, standing behind the roast beef, smiled and said, "Roast Beef, Guv'nor?" The Governor smiled back and shook his head – he is good at that – and moved on. The man in the cook's hat smiled at me and said, "Roast beef, Guv'nor?"

There was the time I interviewed a seven year-old boy with cerebral palsy. He had just received a computer that talks for him, and I asked him how it would change his life. It took him a full minute because he was still learning how to operate it, but the computer voice finally said, "That's a stupid question."

There was the time when Roland "Hobo" Landry and Arthur "Wheel" Louviere jammed the corner of the gunnysack into their hubcap to cure a dog of chasing cars, and both of them ended up with teeth marks all over them.

There was the time in Jackson Hole, Wyo., when Scott Heiserman tried to jump over a rented Buick Park Avenue and went through the back window. We had to take him to the hospital because he had a hunk of glass stuck in his leg. The doctor said, "Let me get this straight, you got hit by a car?"

Scott said, "Well, sort of…"

All these stories say something about me, too.

A year ago, the two-year contract I had signed here expired. I decided to move on, after I worked my way through the list of people I wanted to write about. A year later, I had written about all of them, but the list was longer with new names.

So I am still here, in a town that looks like you tried to type New Orleans with your fingers on the wrong keys. It has been great. The only thing I regret is the time I fell off the mechanical bull, and I only regret that on cold, damp mornings.

I don't know how all of this leads to Detroit, but I hope it does. I do know that this might not be considered proper material to send to a person I am asking for a job.

All I can say is that's what happened.