Molly Ivins, My Best Friend (Sort of)

Well, Molly Ivins has been dead a little over six months now, and it still sucks. Not that I knew her. But she was one of the reasons I always wanted to become a famous writer—so that Molly and I could be girlfriends. So that when she just couldn't get one of those fabulous, witty, homey columns of hers quite right, she'd call me up and say, "Robert, do you think you could take a glance at this?" And every time, I'd say, "Of course, Moll. Don't give it a second thought, Moll." Because that's just the sort of imaginary friend I am. The kind who'd do anything for you.

But I don't want you to think that ours was a one-sided fake friendship. Because whenever I came across some delicious little Texas-y tidbit, I imagined myself phoning Molly, and after we laughed and laughed, she'd tell me, "Now, you know I have to quote you, Robert." And I'd say, "No, Moll, take it. It's yours." And she'd say, "No, Robert, how could I possibly deny the nation a wit like yours. The People have to know there still are fellows out there with your kind of humor and eloquence." (The reader will note that even in my fantasy life, I never lose my concern for the public.) And then, she would quote me, and it was almost embarrassing the way complete strangers would come up to me on the street, and repeat my own jokes back to me.

Ah, well. All that's gone now, and all due to stupid, stupid breast cancer. And all I'm left with, from all our years of near-mutual devotion, are Molly's fantastic books. Particularly Molly Ivins Can't Say That, Can She? Which is so funny and smart it makes my teeth hurt. So funny and smart, that if Molly hadn't been my imaginary friend, I'd have hated her guts. When I was in college, my mother offered to pay me fifteen hundred dollars if I promised to never read another person's poetry to her ever again. She's never been a big fan of being read to—feels dominating to her. But one of our great joys has been reading Molly back and forth to one another, with big, fat breaks of laughter. A particular favorite is the one where Molly goes to the Greenhouse, a spa outside Dallas, and is told by an over-zealous makeup artiste that she (Molly) has "a fabulous space between her eyes." It's become something my mother and I say to one another. "But Mother," I'll say, when she's getting depressed about her looks, "you have a fabulous space between your eyes!"

Anyway, as usual, I started out talking about somebody else, and I ended up talking about myself. But only half of that's selfishness—the other half is how much a part of my life Molly Ivins, total stranger, seemed to me for years. She's one of a very small handful of people who've made me boastful of being a Texan. She made me say, when Yankees made the mistake of equating Texas with Bush, "Well, Molly Ivins is from Texas, so how bad could it be?" And to Molly's enormous credit, those know-it-all Yankees always agreed with me.

Molly Ivins is a writer who leapt off the page and into my life. I think about her all the time. As crazy as it sounds, I miss her terribly. I miss being her fake girlfriend. I miss hoping that someday, after I become world famous, we'll be, really, best friends. And now, everybody, go get that damned mammogram. Hell, I'm considering getting one, too.