There is more to life that agreeing about politics
I met Mark Campbell about a decade ago in Cairo, in the kind of bar that only Cairo can produce. Pub 28 was a dive with an age of faded charm, all cigarette smoke and deals for the best tables and the air of something illicit going on. It was Mark’s favorite place, or one of them. He had returned to Cairo, where he had lived before, to prospect for gold in the Western desert. He’d arrive besuited, with a bowtie on occasion — a vociferous white-haired Texan who’d dominate a room.
One the one hand, this is a very personal remembrance. But on the other, there is something fundamental (if not quite universal) about the expatriate experience. I sometimes feel as if expats are my people. You can tell them wherever you go. They are a breed apart. They are worth talking to, more than most.
Mark was, as Damon Runyon might have said, “always generous with the ready.” He bought drinks constantly, which created hangers-on, and didn’t seem to care. For those of us who were younger — or at least younger than him, whatever exactly his age was — he was a kind of expat patron saint. He unfailingly called me “Junior,” and I’ve reached the sort of age where that feels pretty goddam good.
Everything about Mark was slightly out of time. His past was a fog of insinuations: the hint of dual passports, something about Wall Street, hazy skullduggeries, name-dropping of a long-forgotten boy’s club and stories that flirted with improbable. His age was indeterminate. Today he might have been 75 or 89 – I truly have no idea, and he always refused to say. He liked to pretend he was from the World War II generation, which would place him toward the end of the range, but you never know. Truth, in Cairo, was a totally fluid thing.
He hated the Japanese with a comical Old Testament intensity and loved big-band music with equally absurd passion. If you ended up at his Zamalek apartment — and many a time I did — he would insist on playing it, while distributing non-stop beers. Attempts to take over the sound system with U2 or Springsteen were treated as acts of heresy. He threatened to throw me out more than once on this account. “That trash is not even music!!” he would bellow. I feel the same way about today pop music. Am I like Mark? Surely not! But maybe so.
Politically, he was an extreme right-winger, though even that felt like a bit of a performance. He delighted in quoting Reagan’s line that the most terrifying words in the English language are “I’m from the government, and I’m here to help.” I once pointed out that surely government has a role where the market cannot be counted on — for example, ensuring that every six-year-old receives a first-grade education. Mark nodded, and in his Texan drawl replied, “Absolutely, Junior. Long’s their parents can pay for it.” I just looked at him, and we sipped out Stella beers. You could never tell if he was yanking yer chain.
We are living in an era of political polarization that is causing people to hate each other. Mark was a case of a radical you cannot hate. Almost everybody loved him. You know what? That was his gift to me. He coaxed me to rise above divisions. He also offered to bankroll my campaign for the “Junior Senator from Pennsylvania,” despite our disagreements. That would have been nice, if illegal.
Over time, I began to develop a sense that he had powers of prophesy that elude the merely sane. In December 2017, my beloved Philadelphia Eagles lost MVP-caliber quarterback Carson Wentz to a season-ending injury. I was despondent, which attached to my own insanity. Mark found me in a bar called Deal’s, immediately identified my despair, and demanded to know what’s wrong. I told him that my hopes were crushed. No Wentz – no Super Bowl; every expert agreed.
Mark waved this off with a grimace and a scowl. “Keep your shirt on, Junior,” he commanded. “Y’all goin’ to the Super Bowl anyway. You’re going to the Super Bowl – and you’re gonna win the Super Bowl.” And this is precisely what came to pass. It has taught me to never underestimate the lunatic fringe. Political events since then have only reinforced this unsettling suspicion.
The last time I saw him was in 2019. His foot was in trouble; doctors were threatening amputation. He was irritable but undiminished. He rallied my old Cairo crowd for a night out and presided over the gathering like a gruff, benevolent emperor. When some of us left early he waved us away: “Go on, young’uns, have yer fun.” He was a professional oldster, a role he played with gusto. I left for greener pastures. It is a low bar, if to be literal.
Mark passed away today. He died a young man. Goodbye, dear crazy friend. I’ll see you in that Texas A&M in the sky.
