Most college students are looking for a job or either have a job because how else would we pay for that pizza at 1 am or second coffee of the day? So when I got an email from a woman I had interviewed with in June for an intern position I did not obtain, she referred me to a job, that paid $10 an hour, I was thrilled! The job was to type poems for an author who has numerous published poems and books, which is definitely an area of interest for my future.

The caveat: the author has multiple sclerosis and cannot type anymore.

I knew I did not want to get another mindless, tiring job like working at a yogurt shop, and it would be nice to help someone out, as well as learn more about writing, so I called right away. I did not know much about MS and nothing prepared me for the condition he would be in.

I had only communicated with his wife via email, so I was unsure which house was theirs since the given address had two connected buildings. Of course, I picked the wrong door to knock on, and his wife eventually emails me telling me she will come down. We walked up the stairs and she told me next time to use the elevator. Elevator? That’s pretty fancy. She was not the one interviewing me, even as I tried to give her my whole elevator pitch on how I am a fast typer, and passionate writer yadda, yadda, yada. She took me into her husband’s room where I saw a hospital bed, mountains of pills and a small man with white hair and the most classic pair of intellectual writer glasses I have ever seen, sitting in a specially designed bed chair, smiling.

My heart sunk and my elevator pitch, literally, went down the elevator.

I was not expecting him to be in this poor of condition. He continued to give this heart warming smile and introduced himself, in a hoarse whisper. I smiled and felt as much of his pain as I could. We talked about some of his favorite writers, whom we would eventually read like, Thomas McGrath and Mark Twain. I had to scoot my chair as close to his head as possible because when he talked it was like listening to the ocean breeze sweep up the sand over a field of grass.

We barely talked about what I would be doing on the job, and not once did we talk about his condition. His wife came in and brushed up more on the job part and said I would be typing the poems he created and send them to literary publications, as well as check his emails and read famous poems. She asked if I could start tomorrow, and I said I would work all week. I did not realize that I had been there for a little more than an hour and said my goodbyes to my new boss. He left me with the most poetic, simple, goodbye that plastered a never-ending smile on my face.

“Give the world my regards,” he said.

Although it's only my first week, I know that this is something more than a job. He is someone more than an author with a terrible disease. He is my inspiration and mentor. His body may be dying, but his mind won’t ever stop growing. There is so much to learn from him about the way the world works, how to see the world, how to truly feel the world, and how to give the world a voice through writing.