On the day I met William F. Buckley

On the day I met William F. Buckley, I learned that he and his wife, Pat, had discussed it beforehand. When I went to meet him at his home in the city, Mrs. Buckley met me at the door and took me aside for a moment for some quick advice. She gave me a pamphlet that her husband had been reading and was anxious to talk about – I think it might have been a Hillsdale Imprimis, but I’m not sure after all this time. In any case, if I gave it a quick read I might be more prepared to answer whatever questions he asked me, and at the very least should consider it of some educational value in its own right. So I glanced at it while he finished up with a call in his office. From the president? To the president? Kissinger? A hotel in Switzerland? I never learned. Anyway, when I was finally sitting across from him, it seemed to me that his mind was elsewhere. He asked me a long and difficult question, and just as I was forming an answer he informed me that he needed to take care of something, got up, and walked out of the room. I took this as an opportunity to study up on the question, and so turned to the pamphlet in search of an answer. By the time he came back I had slipped the little book into the side pocket of my satchel, and answered the question as if there hadn’t been any interruption. He furrowed his eyebrows a little and seemed to follow me with an intent look, but I could tell that at some points his mind had wandered off to whatever subject it was with which he was otherwise preoccupied. When I finished, he took a breath and said, “Right …”, took a second breath and began expanding upon the subject himself. I had a hard time following him, which doesn’t mean I doubted him. Not in the least. Then, in what seemed to be the middle of his answer, he stood up and announced that he needed to take care of something, and then walked out of the room. This time I waited for a minute at most, and when he came back he announced that perhaps we should retire to a bar “where we might be more comfortable.” I wasn’t about to refuse, so we got up and walked a short block or two to a place with which he was certainly familiar, exchanging a few remarks along the way about some of my own recent work and how it intersected with his own. When the conversation turned to matters such as the current geopolitical situation, I felt like I was still being interviewed, and I wondered if it had any bearing on our friendship. Of course I know now that it did. Everything counts. We took our place at a small, high table, and very soon after a waitress brought over drinks – Bloody Marys, as I recall – without either of us ordering. Obviously Mr. Buckley had been there before. We continued talking, and I still had the impression that more important gears were turning in the back of his mind. By this time I’d begun feeling that I was blowing an opportunity – a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity - but without quite exactly knowing how I’d blown it. I never learned that either. When he’d finished his disquisition on another subject, he murmured quietly and got up from the table. I watched him as he walked over to the bartender and dropped a couple of twenties on the counter and then wander back to our table. By this time I’d stood up beside my chair, and we then walked out into the bright air together. We shook hands, and for once he had spark of something in his eyes – was it because we were parting? I felt better and awful at the same time. We said our goodbyes and went our separate ways. I was sad, and even a little worried: what was I to do, if he wasn’t there to help me?