In the fifties, Jay, my late first husband, introduced me to Phil Klass, known to sci fi readers as William Tenn. He was a sweet guy and spent many hours with sci fi friends, going to Hydra meetings (sci fi pros’ monthly gathering at various apartments) trading stories and generally hanging out. Jay and Theodore Sturgeon, who was Jay’s roommate for several years at 151 8th Avenue in New York, used to joke about Phil’s inability to say goodnight. To test this out, they once stood in our apartment doorway one night saying goodnight to Phil and were there till morning.

At a sci fi convention, Phil once said, he was approached by a teen fan. “You’re William Tenn,” said the teen. “Gee, I thought you’d be taller.” Phil leaned forward and confided, "So did I.”

Phil then met and married Fruma and she was determined to see that Phil overcome his apparent disinclination to work, that she was convinced was the result of his friends’ undue influence. She changed their phone no. I did a little research and found the new one and phoned. She was nonplused and very cool. In 1966, Phil accepted a position at Penn State to teach there and stayed there for the rest of his working life. We never saw him again.

About two years ago, I heard from a minion from the Scientology group. They had heard that Jay had known L. Ron Hubbard as, indeed, he had, and somehow had located me. When Ron (known to his detractors as “Toad”) left New York in the 50s to live in California, Jay used to say he was in his “flowing robe stage.” But they exchanged correspondence. I have a letter from Hubbard, addressed to Jay, with a very secular tone and camaraderie, inviting Jay and whoever was his s.o. to join him on his boat for a vacation.

The Scientology fellow wanted this letter. I said I would be happy to send him a photocopy, but I could not give up the original. During our conversation he said he had talked with Phil, so I prevailed on him to give me Phil’s number, that I duly put into my Rolodex. From time to time I would look at the note sticking up from the Rolo wheel and say to myself, “I’ve got to call Phil.” But I didn’t do it. I think I was daunted by that last cool rejection from his wife. I am so sorry I didn’t get off my butt and do it because the New York Times just printed Phil’s obit. He died February 7th, at the age of 89. What in Hell was I waiting for? I had to know he was old. Anyway, it’s too late now. I might write Fruma a note anyway.

xx, Teal