Always

    The harsh equatorial light of September 1966 is now frozen on my wall. It creates a 
chiaroscuro effect in unforgiving black and white, carving the handsome features of a little 
known actor named Eric Fleming into a rough skull. The scene is vivid in my mind and 
yet for me it exists in this faded printout of a moment. 
    In 1997, the scene is battered and tenuous. It has been tacked to the rough stucco wall 
with respect, yet the edges curl from my sweat smudged fingerprints in the sticky summer 
air. The awful weight of it is unsupported by any frame, and the uneven edges (where my 
hand shook as I was clipping it out) are caught by the gentle breeze of my roommates' 
fan. The rustling of paper against the bone wall whispers softly, as if to say "it's alright". 
But I don't believe it. 
    On that tattered slip of paper, he is standing frozen in time, hands on hips, staring off 
into the distance. Behind him the river which in a few days will take his life is deceptively 
silent. The thought of this event terrifies me, and yet the photo is somehow comforting. 
Even in freeze frame, there is infinite grace in the way he carries his shoulders, the angle of 
his head, and the way he seems to be able to bend the very light around him to convey his 
feelings. It was this mastery of light and dark, an almost surreal expressivity, that first 
captured my imagination thirty years after his death. He possesses something I lack; a 
determination to do what must be done, to move on when it is time. Around him I can 
almost see the ties to his past breaking, like the dense jungle foliage under a machete or 
the shattered stones which hide his feet from view. 
    Yet there is something worn or tired in the defiant stance. Despite his command of light 
and dark, the shadows foretell his fate. The sharp angles of his wrinkled khakis seem to 
skeletonize his legs. His tattered sleeves hang limply from the commanding set of his 
shoulders. Under the diagonal folds of his nearly buttoned white shirt, I imagine his 
powerful sleek muscles working against the current to no avail. And still he stands there, 
motionless. His back is to the darkness of his troubled past, to an abusive childhood, a life 
spent struggling to survive, and now even to acting itself. His future is bright with an 
upcoming marriage, a new life. He is at peace. 
    This image is the closest I have ever been to feeling that way myself. In some ways I 
am still afraid of choices, of changes. Afraid of what happened to him. But in this 
moment of conflicting images, I rejoice in his life as well as mourn his death. He possesses 
an inner strength which transcends the years between us, a courage that allowed him to 
follow his heart and not spend his life haunted by fear of death or failure. My indecision is 
no match for his absolute certainty, and I find myself slowly facing life with hope, not 
terror. In the infinite silence of this phantom moment, I hear a whispered "it's alright" and 
for the first time, I begin to think that it might be.
  Copyright © 1998 Kate Megquier all rights reserved -

Kate Megquier kmegquier@wellesley.edu

REMEMBERING ERIC

ALL WORK AND no play make this woman a very dull woman. So I occasionally set my mind adrift. During a quiet moment at work, my consciousness fleetingly crossed paths with Eric Fleming.  

ERIC FLEMING. I probably hadn't thought of him since the personal computer was invented. On a whim, I entered his name in a search engine on the Internet - and was absolutely stunned to find this site. I was caught completely off guard. I found myself tenderized as I gazed at his picture, unexpectedly charmed by the text of his personal words, shocked at the detailed biography of his life. Thirty-two years after his death, I had to escape to the restroom and have a good, quiet cry - about a man I never knew.  

I WAS ONLY thirteen when Eric passed away - far too young to analyze the reasons why I felt the way I did about him, my "first love." My heart dropped to my toes at the caress of his soothing, sensual voice - and soared whenever I watched his graceful form walk across the TV screen. I just desperately wanted...a set of chaps for my twelfth birthday, size 5 women's cowboy boots with cutaway heels (that I've come to believe never existed), and jerky - lots of jerky! I urged my rather baffled parents to think about moving to Missouri (not realizing that Eric must have lived no more than ten miles away from my house in Los Angeles). I daydreamed of riding horses in the desert. I forced my unwilling soprano into a premature alto in a silly attempt to mimic his vocal depth. I learned to sit a western saddle well enough to win blue ribbons in riding competitions. I imagine that, every week, I drove my parents from Sedalia through Kansas City and straight on to distraction...all because I wanted Eric to somehow be with me.  

IT HAS BEEN a wonderful, bittersweet experience rediscovering Eric Fleming. Finding him again has introduced me to myself - thirty-two years ago. I can smile about 'her' now - that nutty, infatuated girl I was. I'd forgotten she existed, just as I'd forgotten about Eric's influence on my life. He seems to have been my adopted "father figure," a desperately needed role model, bravely facing the challenges of life while my own tempestuous father could not. In my young eyes "Gil Favor," and therefore Eric Fleming himself, merged into an archetype of the Good Man: gentle, intelligent, trustworthy, fun-loving, resilient, logical, determined, protective, contentious when provoked, compassionate, kind, courageous, humble, honorable, and thankfully, imperfect. And I was devastated at his death. As a direct result, at fourteen, I pledged to myself that I was going to work in show business so no actor I 'loved' would die before I had a chance to meet him! The baggage of that promise has stayed with me to this day. I've been working in the film industry for over twenty-five years now - with debatable results. I certainly commiserate with Eric's desire to leave the business and retire to Hawaii. Men of Eric Fleming's substance and presence are virtually unknown on this planet today, let alone in the film business! 

HE'S WITH ME AGAIN. Sadly not in the flesh but, mercifully, in this web site with his life experiences 'fleshed out.' It has been an unexpected epiphany to learn more about Eric, even at this late date. I've discovered wonderful things I can still allow his spirit to teach me - the virtues and pitfalls of being a free and creative spirit, the importance of speaking Truth to powerful people, the need to question authority, the ability to overcome adversity, the acceptability of changing directions, and the courage to give one's best. For those of us fortunate or creative enough to intuit the value of Eric's experiences, life stands as a challenge for us to live true to ourselves. 

I'VE OCCASIONALLY come across people who met Eric. One man told me that Eric loved the freedom of walking barefoot and was a free spirit (almost a hippie) who chose to live in a small Hollywood garage apartment despite the success of Rawhide. Another told me a chilling account of the disastrous filming that ended his life. But nowhere have I seen the wealth of information I've come across in this web site. I am very grateful to Sherry Hansley for her diligence and hard work in  bringing this site to those of us who continue to cherish the joy Eric has given us.  What a rare and lovely man. I'm so happy to have discovered his spirit again.  

Alistair Mitchell  
mitchellwrks@earthlink.net