On Tuesday, April 30, 2002, Lt. Paul Wayne Kopesky entered his final month of active duty for the United States Navy.

The next day, he was in Boston, where he will serve that final month -- on leave.

That the lieutenant was able to figure out how to fulfill his final month of service on vacation is testament to the fact that he is considerably more intelligent than me.

After high school he went off to Massachusetts Institute of Technology, one of the best schools in the world, while I stuck around, earned my G.E.D., and attended a university that offers a free box of steaks with enrollment.

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So imagine my delight when the Navy stationed him in town. Suddenly my best buddy -- who earns more money than me, and could therefore be cajoled into buying beer -- was within a five-minute drive.

But Navy life ain't easy. Paul was stationed on a ship that had a relatively easy workload, only going out for short multi-day jaunts to warm, vacation locales. Even that is tough on a marriage. Most Navy men and women are sent out for months, even years, at a time -- without beer!

Then the lieutenant's wife returned to Boston, to attend med school.

Laura Lewis has already written more eloquently about the trials and tribulations of long-distance relationships, but suffice to say, it sucks. That fact was compounded by Sept. 11; on more than one occasion plans to fly to Boston had to be scrapped when he was called to his ship.

"It was so hard," Paul told me. "We'd just sit there on the phone and just ... run out of things to say."

Faced with the reality of days without beer, and weeks without nookie, he decided that he wanted to give civilian life a try.

Mrs. Kopesky will have plenty of things to say now. Things like, "Change your underwear," and, "I thought I told you to shave."

Paul plans to celebrate civilian life by not doing the things that were basic requirements in the Navy, like shaving. Apparently, this is quite common among military personnel upon leaving -- they do their best to transform themselves into Jerry Garcia as quickly as possible.

Mrs. Kopesky will also probably get used to saying, "Don't worry, I've already called the paramedics," because Paul plans on taking on several home improvement projects.

"I'm going to put in all new countertops," he told me.

"Have you done anything like that before?" I asked.

"No," he said.

I hope he has good medical coverage -- and a comfortable couch, because I suspect that's where he'll be sleeping.

Now, I will admit that I have an almost supernatural ability to annoy people. I have been known to enrage individuals simply by walking into the room. And I am sure that Paul's wife is concerned he may have picked up some of my habits while hanging around me unsupervised.

I want to assure her that I am returning him pretty much as she left him. He is still in desperate need of fashion guidance; he is still easily distracted while driving; he still falls into a deep, impenetrable sleep after just three beers; and he's still one hell of a guy.

When I had earned my G.E.D. and was accepted into Uncle Billy's School Of Fancy College Learnin' (formerly Moorhead State University), Paul was genuinely excited for me. He cheered. That's the kind of bloke he is: genuinely interested in people, genuinely eager to see them succeed.

As a third generation member of the Global Media Conspiracy -- constantly writing and reading about killers, inept politicians, and greedy corporations that dump toxins in the river -- it can be difficult for me to maintain a positive outlook. But Paul has an amazing skill of seeing value in just about everything.

His optimism is infectious. After a few beers with him, I regularly come away believing that not only will I achieve my dream of being a successful novelist, but I will also be British Prime Minister and help establish lasting peace in the Middle East.

I will certainly miss having that nearby.

But in his indefatigable way, Paul is convinced that somehow fate will put us back in the same town again someday. I hope so -- I'm going to need a place to sleep when my literary career tanks.

Chris Cope is married, with no children. His column appears every other Tuesday.