Sometimes I write, but question the urge to actually “publish.” Why bother? Who cares? Isn’t activity preferable to rumination.
Sometimes.
But the past defines us, defines me. I’ve tried to make peace with it, and yet … there are those incidents and periods that speak to me still. Some whisper, others scream and demand like …
****
Out of the hospital for a few weeks. I am myself, but newly born and sensitive to the sensations of my life. The world feels off kilter, and psychically abrasive. My path back to my former self, according to whichever doctor happens to be reviewing my history, may take months …. or maybe years. Years? Best make peace with something I can’t control.
In the meantime I crave comfort and routine. Friends and family reach out. Some I’m eager to hear from. Some I’m not.
When I was in grade school, and even later in life, I would mentally designate one of my friends as my “best-friend.” As I grew and matured the “best friend” term felt childish – like a relic of boyhood. I’d also avoid using the term “love” when describing friends. “Really like” was as far as I would admit to my feelings and affection. At the same time I’d sometimes wonder if someone else considered me their “best friend.” I strived to be present in the lives of the people I liked. I wanted them in my life and presumably they wanted the same of me.
I meet John freshman year at college. He’s visiting another guy in the dorm room across the hall from mine. We get a long great. He’s witty and sarcastic. The longer we hung out the more we discovered a shared background. We both went to Catholic high school. Our father’s are “roguish.” We like the same music and drinking … and drugs. Actually he likes drugs more than I de, but I don’t hold that against him. Like a comet, he appears occasionally. We all have fun. And then he’s off again.
A year later he moves to UMass. We run in different circles, but whenever we meet up I feel … welcomed and at home.
After college we kept in touch. Hung out. Had fun. I met his girlfriend, later his wife. His bachelor party – on an island in Boston harbor – was the stuff of legend. His new wife came with old yankee privileges including a swath of beautiful ocean front property on the North Shore. He was frequently inviting me and my daughters down to swim and drink it all in. “There’s a cliff over on this side we can jump off. Later we’ll swing over over to Halibut Point and grab dinner!” I’m be the first to jump off – to show my daughters it was fun. And, of course, he’s right behind me. God damn! The water is so so cold, but we don’t care.
The drinking and the drugs took their toll. I wasn’t invited to his intervention (ironic given my relative sobriety) and away to rehab he did go. He eventually became an active member of AA. Like everything in life, he embraced it. Another patch to add to the crazy quilt of a bright, colorful life.
He saw the humor in everything and he’d spin yarns detailing his darker, funnier episodes with a twinkle in his eye. I’d try not to smirk. “John, that’s … so fucked up.” I know, right?!! And we’d both laugh. Now that I think of it, he probably shared a lot of these stories with load of people, but in the telling I felt like he was entrusting me with something personal. And I’d keep his stories like a secret. Safe. Secure.
The last thing I’ll mention is his uncanny knack of reaching out at some of my lowest points in life, my emotional nadirs. “I’m bringing the jeep to Martha’s Vineyard. Come with me.” It was less a request and more of a command. I happily obliged. It’s a balmy morning and he’s outside my front door by 7 a.m. By 9:30, we’re driving his jeep off the ferry in Vinyard Haven. We spend the rest of the day roaming the island: Tisbury, Chilmark, John Belushi’s grave, the cliffs of Aquinnah, Katama Beach, Chappaquiddick, the infamous Jaws Bridge, Oak Bluffs. “John, how are we getting home?” Flying! He springs for two tickets with Cape Air. TSA wouldn’t let me board the plane with the knife they found in my bag. “Ditch the knife. I’ll buy you another one.” The pilot, a young guy with a dark blue polo shirt, white shorts and mirrored sunglasses stands waiting by his tiny plane. My mom got me this knife when I joined cub scouts. There is no way I’m leaving it. John rolls his eyes. “Stash it in the jeep then. I’ll get it to you when I drive it home in September.” I love John, but sometimes his promises are to be taken with a grain of salt. The pilot comes in and said we have to go. Now. I run out to the Jeep in the parking lot and hide the knife under the driver’s side floor mat. John and the pilot sit in the front two seats. I sit behind and gaze out at the whole of Cape Cod spread below us like a map. We land at Logan Airport 30 minutes later.
Amazing. And on the train ride back to my neighborhood, it occurs to me this is first time in years (and years) I haven’t thought about …
A few months later he surprises me by dropping the knife off in my mailbox.
Every Sunday morning like clockwork my phone rings. “Bobbbbbyyyyy! Guess what I’m doing right now?” In line at Dunkin Donuts drive-through getting a large ice tea with two sugars. “Correct!” So predictable. “Hey John, did I ever thank you for breaking into my house and leaving that home-made birthday card and the Dunks gift card?” “You did!” he laughs.
April 25. No phone call. Probably slipped his mind. I spend the morning staring at the TV wondering what I will do, what I’m capable of doing for the rest of the day. My phone buzzes. It has to be John.
No. It’s a text message …. from Jack. He’s John’s oldest friend. I like Jack, but I’ve never received a message from him before.
“Hey Bob- John was is a really bad … accident yesterday and is in bad shape at Umass Medical—unconscious all day and collapsed lungs- Not any more detail than that right now.”
Fuck.