Refugee from Reason

There’s nothin’ else to do but listen to the blues and drink a glass of scotch. With the blues there are memories; not always of women. Yesterday, I got in touch with a fellow who is probably my oldest friend. We grew up together, did the Kerouac route across the country before became the “in” thing; played music on street corners and read poetry in the coffee houses of old.

About a decade ago, his wife died. Having a remarkable problem with death, I didn’t attend the memorial and since that time we hadn’t spoken. I thought my friend yesterday and called him. He’d been thinking about me as well and welcomed me with an “I’m so glad you called.” I apologized with my rationale of death, noting that it was not an excuse, but just who I am. He acknowledged his anger at the time but was well over it.

We’d been through much together; a half dozen wives and countless other women between; the usual ups and downs; in and out of trouble, nothing serious, no police…just what one experiences in life. We recalled the time we were drunk as teens without dates on New Year’s Eve. I asked him “Which way?” He said, “Turn right.” I did and the next words out of his mouth at time were, “At corner you idiot,” was we tried to dig the car out of snowbank.

We’re older now and it seems our adventures are well behind us with few if any to come. And we’ve lost a decade, but the friendship is back and it is a friendship. My definition of friendship is one who watches your back, up a hill on a night patrol. My friend always has and I believe always will.

We will see each other again in a month or so and making that phone call was a highlight of my week.