I think most people have experienced getting an email from someone who they’ve lost touch with; an old flame, a former co-worker or collaborator, a mentor.

I was surprised when I got an email from Larry.  He traced a trail of connection suggestions on LinkedIn until he found me.

I met Larry over ten years ago through a professional writers association. Neither of us fit the typical member profile. His professional background emphasized creative work, including some copywriting, at mid-sized ad agencies. I was neither a novelist nor a journalist. I wrote some how to material but wouldn’t have described myself as a technical writer.

He was a deeply feeling person and had an ironic sense of humor. His business card was made of a sort of brownish card stock and on the back, hand-stamped with an ink blotter, were the words, “Sealed for your protection.”

After a few weeks of postponing getting together, he stopped over for a visit and a short walk to First Slice, a neighborhood café and sandwich shop where we planned to have lunch.

As if no time had elapsed since our last schmooz fest, we provided clues for where each others’ narratives should pick up. I recalled what was happening in his life. (You were going through a divorce. Your son wasn’t speaking to you. Etc.) He performed a similar service for me. (The last time we connected, you had just broken up with the artist and wrote that story. Pretty racy.)

Taking his cues, I shared other factoids from my life; how my mother had passed away a couple years earlier and about how my boyfriend and I bought this great building. He said “I’m sorry” at all the right places and bubbled over with “Just beautiful” at all the right places too.

He confirmed some things I already knew about his life, that his marriage was unimaginably hollow and his divorce was beyond painful. Then he gushed about the unconditional love he has been receiving from his current partner. I was so happy for him on hearing his relationship news.

Before we left my kitchen to walk to my neighborhood café, he began sharing his adventures, or misadventures, trying to find work as a man in his sixties.

“Why don’t you just do caricatures?” I tossed out, knowing he had a talent for this.

“Sh. Sh,” he said holding up his hand, the telling of his story obviously being more important than arriving at a conclusion.

He told me about landing a copy writing job with a big corporation where he was embraced for his keen understanding of what needed to be communicated then was let go after a change in supervisors. He participated in a re-training program in computer design, but wasn’t able to see the re-training culminate in a new career. He told me about how, as a retail salesman, he was wrongly accused of merchandise theft and then held up as an award-winning example of customer service by the same management team.

“Phone Cohen,” he confided to me. That’s what people in his shop used to say about him because Larry Cohen could listen to customers and make them feel important then cut through red tape to solve any problem.

“Why didn’t you just do caricatures?” I echoed my earlier suggestion.

Again, he held up his hand. “Sh. Sh.”

He continued his saga, explaining how he did turn to doing caricatures, unexpectedly adding that he did this type of work at Great America.

“See,” I chided him, hoping we would get to the happily ever after part. Instead, like a seasoned voice-over guy peddling Popeil miracle devices for the kitchen, he cautioned me. “But wait.  There’s more.”

Doing caricatures in the sun at Great America among twenty-something year-old face sketchers who, while not as character-rich, could render serviceable likenesses in a third less time led to a long talk with management. This was followed by a reduction in hours which was followed by his decision to just manage his own business doing caricatures for parties, corporate events, invitations, unique facebook faces and such.

He handed me a business card. Phonecohen.com. Of course the card featured a current caricature. His face, his hairline and the frames of his glasses spoke volumes about a man who tried to keep his dignity and sense of humor while life was not always kind.

“I’ll do your caricature if you like,” he offered as I asked him for second and third cards to give to friends.

Ha, I thought.  I didn’t even have to say I told you so about how he came to his new vocation.

Having lunch with an old friend who is not afraid to show his story in his face and is proud of his ability to show you your story in a picture is no small thing.