It’s Personal

A friend of mine stopped in. Many people know him through his writing for a local paper but I know him as something else. A major pain in my ass which, through some type of insane mix of clashing personalities and character flaws, is how I react to all my friends.

He stopped in to tell me he’d just turned 84.

“Wow,” I said. “You qualify for the platinum AARP card now. Do you get frequent bathroom miles with that?”

We went on to reminisce about the times we’ve had. Most of them adversarial, but in a good way. How else would you think two people, so different in temperament and generational aplomb, would act? I’m a baby boomer whereas his generation laid the bomb. We couldn’t look at things more differently if we spoke different languages, which, many times, I’ve noticed him rather indecipherable.

He went on to complain, as if this happened just yesterday, about when, on his own volition, he’d give me a ride to work. His major complaint? I wouldn’t exit the house until a specific time. I called it orderly. He called it part of my genetic flaw. A Teutonic timetable, if you will.

So here he was, for the millionth time, accusing me of letting him sit there on purpose. Despite my protestations, he would not believe that I wasn’t sitting there, maybe watching the Today show, knowing full well he was sitting there stewing until the clock stuck the appointed half hour.

He also wouldn’t believe when I told him, although his fetid mind may have planted this nugget in his skull, I didn’t stand by the window watching him look towards the door, then at his watch, back to the door before staring straight ahead in some aggrieved bouillabaisse he was stewing. The truth is, I didn’t. Often. I was too busy leading my roommates in a rousing game of “How red can Don get?”

Pretty red some days.

Back then he was a writer of some self importance. As with most writers, he was deluded about the reality of people caring about what he wrote. He knew they did because they told him personally. I told him they were being polite or patronizing. Who wants to listen to a windbag palaver when it’s so much easier to praise him so he’ll revel in the glory that is his own mind.

We’d have rousing discussions, centered upon my view that I only cared about getting paid circling his of having the hearts and minds of his readers. My argument laid squarely with my desire not to have bill collectors reposes my heart and mind.

Of course, just like the million other things we’d disagree upon, I was right. Seriously, if you knew Don you’d end up calling him pigheaded too. But I give him his due, although he may be wrong about so many things, he’s a pretty good writer. It’s just that, for my taste, Don’s writing lacks a verisimilitude that just doesn’t sit well with me.

Now, all these years later, he actually is a writer of some renown. I still don’t know how it happened. Have I been wrong all these years about Don? Is it true that his readers care? Nah. I think it’s that he’s been around so long people are waiting for that column when he flips out. I call it the Andy Rooney Effect.

Although I don’t admit it when he asks me (which is every time I see him) I read his column. It’s filled with a softness I’d be hard pressed to achieve; a generosity of spirit I couldn’t catch with a butterfly net; a warmth I couldn’t feel on tar beach in the middle of August.

But I wouldn’t tell him that.

Why ruin a perfectly good friendship? I say something nice to him then he’ll only feel some type of strange obligation to make something up nice about me. And what would happen to his bluster and boasting if he knew I respected him as a man and cherished him as a friend? He’d get all mushy and slippery like a manatee (this description was not chosen haphazardly). He’d cease to puff up like a sea frog while regaling me with his table tennis prowess.

And then what would we have?

Just a normal, run-of-the-mill friendship.

And only he and I understand that.

Most who see us speak assume we’re mortal enemies. I ran into him at a diner, him at his table full of friends and fans; I at a table with my girlfriend. For a few minutes we traded barbs back and forth. It was obvious his friends didn’t like that I was picking on him.

Before he left, Don came over to our table. My girlfriend told him she thought my behavior was a disgrace. Don just smiled that ‘what can ya do?’ smile he’s unleashed on many occasions around me. Before he left, as always seems to happen, a little moment came out. It bounces back and forth as to who gets it in, but it always seems to happen.

“Hey Don,” I said. “I’ve been pretty busy lately. How’d the Red Sox do?”

This happened in 2004. The first World Series victory in his lifetime. A victory so important to this man who, as long as I’ve known him, refers to the team as ‘my Red Sox.’ He smiled the smile I’d seen before. And that’s all needed to be said.

The day he dropped by I watched his girlfriend while we engaged in our time honored badinage somewhat bewildered. During a rare break in the action, she asked me how, after all these years of snipes and jibes, we’ve stayed friends.

I smiled because, to be honest, there is no answer. We’ve argued, laughed, and shared sadness. Maybe that’s it. Maybe it’s because we can ‘have a go’ at each other without worrying about feelings.

Maybe it’s something that can’t be described.

I approached Don while looking at his girlfriend. She deserved an answer. I just wondered if I had one. I stood in front of Don who looked at me with a look I’ve seen many times before. Dread because it’s unfathomable to him what will come out of my mouth. And pride because he knows, whatever it is, I couldn’t have said it without him.

“Well,” I lean over, grab Don’s ample belly with a smile and say, “It’s all because of his rich, Jewy goodness.”