He Counted

By BARRY FRIEDMAN

Pat Campbell and I weren’t friends, not in any real sense, nor were we adversaries, and, by all rights, we should have been that. He, who hosted a robust conservative radio talk show in town, invited me, a robust liberal commentator in town, to be on about a dozen times over the past five years. And though we disagreed on just about everything — and good God, could he be wrong — we found common ground, as much as I hate that term, as it related to the dangers of political cowardice, the ridiculousness of Oklahoma’s Scott Pruitt and his tactical pants, and the belief that a South Tulsa restaurant, which was handing out Bibles at its register, should stop.

When I was on the show, even as some of his listeners were imploding into their phones, screaming about my salvation and eventual certainty in hell, all while wondering why Pat would allow someone of my ilk to sully his broadcast, he judiciously told them all to pound sand and defended my being there. When I’d appear, like clockwork, I’d interrupt his introduction of me, making him add “… and my dear friend Barry Friedman” when he’d list my credits — just to annoy his listeners, who adored Pat, and to make him laugh.

He was gracious, respectful, and apparently liked provocative conversation outside his echo chamber, for he kept having me on. He once asked me to write a satirical “I’m Back” letter to the people of Oklahoma from the aforementioned Scott Pruitt after Pruitt left the Trump administration and was planning to return to the state. Pat then asked me to recite it on the air, which I did, over his cackles and the flashing red lights on the phone from apoplectic listeners.

Months later, there was a report that Stormy Daniels was coming to dance at a local topless club, and Pat thought it would be hilarious if I reviewed her act on-air. She wound up not coming, but I did a mock review anyway, which got me banned from the show for a few months for some indelicate comments I made about Trump supporters enjoying heaving breasts and lap dances. Pat eventually became more incensed by the sanctimony of the calls against my review than the review itself and asked me back on.

“Joining us on the show, back from the doghouse, he said, “and …”

“ —Hold it, hold it,” I interrupted, “still my dear friend.”

“Still my dear friend,” he repeated, laughing, “Barry Friedman.”

It was good radio.

I knew about the cancer, I knew he had lost the show (I never got the details of either), so we lost what little contact we had with each other over the previous year. Years before, though, after I wrote “Four Days and a Year Later,” a book about my son’s death, Pat asked me to come on, wondering if I’d make his show the first one I’d do in promoting the book — and he asked a year before it came out. I agreed. He promised me a full hour. He listened, he read from the book, he wanted no interruptions, took no calls, telling his producer, “I don’t want anyone using this moment to tell Barry to come to Jesus.”

Pat’s father had recently died; Pat had a seizure while driving on a highway. Weeks later, I had a cancerous prostate removed. On the next show, he wanted to talk about the book again, he wanted to talk about death, near-death, and connections with people. Weeks later, as it so happened, after that broadcast, my father was trying to remember his grandchildren and had forgotten about Paul. It was dementia, memory loss, nothing more. When I reminded him that, yes, he had a grandson and his name was Paul and that Paul was dead, my father said, “Oh, he doesn’t count.” My father, like many early-dementia patients, was more upset at the moment that he couldn’t remember how many grandchildren he had and not that he had lost one.

I told that story the next time I was on the show.

I tell you it now because ever since that show and every show after, every time Pat would call or write — even if just to argue about Nancy Pelosi or Medicaid expansion or Donald Trump or Joe Biden or legalized marijuana or the arrogance of religion — Pat would say at some point in the conversation something that of course I knew … but something he wanted me to know he knew: “Paul counted.”

So did you, Pat.

Pat died on Oct. 20, 2021.

Barry Friedman is a satirist in Tulsa, Okla., and a lot of people are saying he is doing some very good work there. He is author of at least four books, including “Road Comic,” “Funny You Should Mention It,” “Four Days and a Year Later” and “The Joke Was On Me: A Comedian’s Memoir.” See barrysfriedman.com.

From The Progressive Populist, December 1, 2021

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