When my first book came out, Body Trace, I was asked by several interviewers if there was any influences I had as a young writer. I listed several writers who had an impact on me, but I also mentioned Irv Rotman, my English teacher at Central High School in Philadelphia. In addition to being a great teacher, Irv spent extra time reading my short stories and then spending his lunch break going over them with me I appreciated the help, but it meant even more that he would take the time do this — his time — and that he took my writing seriously enough.

After the initial burst of post-Body Trace-promotions, I decided to look Irv up and tell him I had gotten published. I Googled his name and made a few phone calls, but couldn’t  find a trace of him, other than the fact that he had retired almost twenty years earlier. From this you may have already figured out that it’s been more than twenty years since my high school graduation, and in the back of my mind, I wondered if maybe Irv had graduated, too, if you know what I mean, as in that big “after-school activity in the sky.” I didn’t remember him as having been particularly young when I was in high school (he must have been at least thirty!), so I wondered if maybe I was too late.

When Blood Poison, my second book, came out, the same questions came up, and so did Irv’s name. It was a pretty hectic time — working on the next book, promoting the previous one, etc., plus, I had moved in the meantime. I looked again, not as thoroughly, but using a few different resources. Still couldn’t find him. 

A couple of weeks ago, I was doing an early interview for Freezer Burn, my next book, which is coming out in June. Again the same question came up, and when I mentioned Irv, I decided I had to look a little harder. I didn’t want to stalk the poor guy, but I figured there had to be a way to find him or what had become of him. I started out using the same (free) online white pages services I had used before, but this time, I started looking in the communities just out side the city, like the one in which I live, and, apparently, the same one in which Irv lives. About forty yards away from me.

I was floored.

I stopped over a couple days later with a couple of signed books and my eight-year-old son. I was a little concerned about what I might find, but Irv opened the door and recognized me almost immediately (I don’t know if that’s a good thing or bad; high school was an awkward time…) Irv looked almost exactly the same, though, which made me feel a lot better about my own rapidly accruing age.

I gave Irv the books and we chatted for a while. I met his charming wife and we talked about writing, and about my alma mater, trading stories about some of the nuttier teachers (even twenty-plus years later, there’s still a thrill about hearing dirt about the teachers).

A couple of days later, I got an e-mail: Irv had finished reading Body Trace, and he enjoyed it very much. Just for a moment, I felt a swell of pride. Then I saw it. There at the bottom.

“PS: I must discuss a point in grammar with you.”

Some things never change.