Harlan Ellison has died after a life of many contributions to literature. If there is an afterlife, he’s probably threatening to sue God. Or mailing off dead weasels to angels.
I met Ellison only twice, both times at World Science Fiction conventions. The first time, if memory serves, was in 1986 at Confederation in Atalanta, Georgia. It was my first Worldcon and I was still amazed that I was sharing the same air as the names that graced the books that I had been reading for years.
Ellison was chatting with a group of fans. He was easy to pick out, since he was the only one in the group who was under 5’10”. I plucked up my courage, walked over, and hung at the edge of group, unnoticed.
There was a break, and I said, “excuse me, Mr. Ellison.” He looked back and upward a bit, to that space whence the voices of fans typically came. Then he did a double-take as he realized his interlocutor was at his own height, if not a little shorter even. (Okay, okay, yes, a little shorter.)
I told him what a pleasure it was to meet him and how I had enjoyed his work. He thanked me, briefly turned back to the other people, and then back to me again. “Do you get the short shit too?”
“All the time.”
“This is what you do,” he said putting an arm over my shoulder. “You say, ‘my height is genetic; it is completely beyond my control. You could do something about being an asshole.’”
Sadly, I only met Harlan Ellison one other time after that. Still, when people make comment on my height (yeah, that happens), I think about what Harlan Ellison said.
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