One year ago today, I had just landed at LAX and turned on my phone to find a text telling me that my good friend Len Davies was gone. I had visited Len in the hospital before leaving town and hoped to get back to LA in time to see him again. I knew he'd taken a turn for the worse but thought there would be more time. But I was too late.
I was stunned by the news, Len was the epitome of optimism, positivity, and the power of hope, and now all of that seemed to disappear with two simple words: "He passed." How is that possible, that someone so filled with life and spirit and energy can just be taken away from us so utterly and cruelly? That's what I've been wondering this past year. I've often thought of Len as my Obi-Wan, my "only hope" in the struggle against the dark side -- though I think Len would prefer to be thought of as Yoda. But he represented a beacon of possibility in a world of disappointment and frustration and discouragement. He was always there with a happy thought, a bit of hopeful news, a cheerful "dear boy" to brighten my day and lift me from the doldrums into his world of limitless potential.
And then he wasn't.
I first met Len at Irv's Burgers in West Hollywood following a referral from my friend Richard Hench, who knew Len from their having worked on a movie together. Len had an idea for a TV show called Emergency LA that would follow paramedics, cops, and ER staff through a series of interconnected storylines. I liked the idea right from the start and I liked Len, too. I agreed to write the pilot episode based on Len's outline, thus beginning a partnership, friendship and collaboration that continued for nearly ten years, and in some ways continues to this day.
Working with Len was one of the most enjoyable creative endeavors I have known. I'd write a scene, based on his outline and send it to him for review and he would lavish me with praise for 'realizing his vision' but also come up with suggestions and ideas to solve plot issues and improve the story. He never balked at my suggestions but took them in and ran with them like a true master of improv, employing the principle of 'yes, and...' to build upon what I'd written and take it to the next level. Our phone calls could go on for hours and I'd end up with a notepad full of new ideas and a head full of new scenarios. I've never met anyone who could 'break' a story like he could. There were no dead ends, just more pathways to explore and more treasures to discover.
As is often the case, our journey with Emergency LA had its ups and downs, a few more downs than ups, actually. Now and then we'd get some news that this or that production company/network/distributor/financer was interested, only to have things fall apart or go up in smoke -- such is show biz. But through it all, Len kept the energy going. We continued to work on scripts, visit locations, check out office/studio space. At one point Len got involved in a plan to buy an old studio, refurbish it and use it to shoot the show ourselves. It was an ambitious plan and very exciting to think about -- and it may have worked if we'd had more time. But time was not on our side.
Meanwhile, I was going through some personal upheaval that required me to fly back and forth to the east coast several times a year, and true to form, Len was there for me. He let me keep my car in his garage for weeks at a time when I was away and came to pick me up at the airport when I came home. I was unemployed and had no way to repay him, but he brushed that aside saying, "You're family." And that was how it felt with Len, like family. We were in this thing together and win or lose, we had each other.
Now it's been a year since he's been gone and the silence has been almost unbearable. No more lengthy phone calls discussing everything from casting choices to space exploration to Beatles trivia. No more making plans for the new studio or renting the Batmobile or playing music together. No more boundless enthusiasm to buck me up when everything seemed a lot less than hopeful. He left a big hole in the world that isn't easy to fill.
But he left something else, too: his family. As part of Len's extended family I've had the great pleasure to get to know his son Toms, who despite dealing with a staggering series of ordeals on top of the loss of his dad, has shown an astounding capacity for resilience and perseverance that inspires me over and over again. I've also met other extended family members who cared about Len as much as I did and our connection to Len has formed a bond that continues in his absence. Len's generosity and love touched so many people and those of us who were lucky enough to know him feel like we were part of something that transcended simple friendship. He may not be with us anymore but as his final gift, he brought us together.
And that's a pretty nice gift.
I guess Len wasn't my only hope after all, because, having come to know Toms and the other members of our extended family, I now know that there is always hope and there is always plenty of love to go around and that like Obi-Wan, Len is out there somewhere watching over me.
And sometimes, I can still hear him saying, "Cheers, dear boy."
