Sometimes when I take a step
back I wonder just how people can call themselves a friend. This honestly eats
at me in a way I can’t explain, though I will try.
I once had a friend who I’d see
nearly every weekend. We’ll call him Harry. Most common traits unshared, we
found a bond over drinks.
And it all started with a deeply held secret, we admitted to each other we used to listen to Master P. Now
I don’t claim to know much about the world, but I don’t think two males can
share any closer bond than that.
As time passed, he and I frequented bars here and there. From what
we remembered we had a great time, every time, no question.
We got to meet a cavalcade of people; cowboys, lesbians, bankers,
bartenders, bouncers, pill poppers, pill dealers, the occasional midget, ex
cons, co-workers, desperate school teachers, hobos, hippies, high-strung
professionals, and cowboy-lesbians etc.
The more we hung out, the more adventures we had, the more
exciting things became. Every weekend it seemed like we were upping the ante,
just by stepping through the door of a new bar.
Months passed and this trend continued. To change things up we
even expanded our travels, heading to Vegas with our then girlfriends. Then lost
said girlfriends, don’t worry it was after Vegas (even still, some were more stubborn
and not easily shaken). We then went about trying to gain new ones thereafter,
hilarity and half-assery ensued, but that’s not the point of the story.
It what seemed like no time the fun stretched out over a period of
five years. My God- five years! It had flown by in an enjoyable way when viewed
from afar.
T’was about this time that I began to notice Harry was willing to
go to lengths that I wasn’t, just to perpetuate a good time. Sure, I was
willing (and in some cases more than willing) to get loaded and piss on the
side of the Wells Fargo building downtown (or other such nonsense), but I had
to draw the line somewhere- I was a gentleman after all.
Even this was fine until it began to affect me. One night at a bar
north of town, Harry had had a little too much and made the mistake of telling
a regular’s girlfriend that his version of cunnilingus was hands down better
than how her boyfriend performed the task. Now when you overlook the fact that
Harry had broken two cardinal sins in the world of bar etiquette; in a bar far
from home, always survey the crowd to see
who is attached, and of course trumping that; don’t fuck with the regulars. Not necessarily all that bad, except
the boyfriend in question was within earshot. I quickly found myself in the
middle of a brewing storm trying to settle down both the lightning and the
thunder.
Granted he was already blind drunk at 11:30 at night, but it might
surprise those that don’t frequent drinking establishments, that this might’ve
actually worked in Harry’s favor. Typically, the boyfriend, and what I assume
were his meth-selling, meth-addicted friends (because you have to have variety
in those you associate with I suppose) would’ve probably had the bouncer gently
(not gently) escort Harry out to the front walk, after realizing Harry’s words
were more unrecognizable slurs than insults.
Of course this would’ve applied, if not for 2 things; 1) there was
actually a bouncer in this dive and 2) Harry had not already worn out his
welcome while trying to take these boys’ money by doing his (worst) pool shark
routine. For the record, drunken pool sharks are not the fiercest predator in the ocean of city nightlife.
Luckily, my gift for gab extends off the written page and into
real life, and while I thought I was probably delivering what for these angry
men was the equivalent of a Gabriel Iglesias show, in reality their sheer
boredom from listening to me likely snuffed out their fury.
A month or so later, while
visiting a bar on the east side, shots were fired. Sorry, didn’t mean to get
dramatic there, I meant shots were involved.
Harry and I thought that we needed to free the whiskey that was behind the bar
and proceeded to order 3 rounds. By the hoisting of the 3rd shot,
Harry was already eyeballing some innocent (well honestly, are there any
innocent folks in bars?) stranger, sizing him up. By the time that last shot
went down, Harry was in this guy’s face screaming, threatening him, and
challenging him to everything besides a
dance contest (though alas, that would’ve been kind of entertaining to watch-
you got served!).
Well it so happened that this fine establishment had been getting
a bit rowdy on weekends, and the owner had what was nearly a constant police presence
there on site. In fact, as Harry was going all silverback on this poor nobody,
policemen were cuffing two other guys who had just shared a similar interaction-
fisticuffs not a dance off. Again, I had to act; I pulled Harry off the
stranger. Apologized, bought him a drink to make amends. Why did Harry suddenly
become so hostile you ask? I don’t know; I believe the explanation I got after
was that this unfortunate stranger was a member of a rival football team Harry
had played against in high school. By the way, when this took place, Harry was
nearly 30 years old.
By this point, some of you may be wondering why I wouldn’t have
spoken up to good ole’ Harry about his behavior. Valid question.
Before I go further, I feel it’s important to say that I’m no
saint myself; and contrary to popular belief, I’m a mere mortal (practicing for
promotion though). As such, copious amounts of alcoholic beverages sometimes do
to me what they do to anyone else - make me act like a damn fool. Although I am
not one to pick fights or inappropriately grope women after throwing back the 5th
‘last one’, I am apt to spouting all manner of mean, hateful horseshit to
anyone that happens to have the misfortune to piss me off. Harry, his
girlfriend, his cousin and Harry’s dear mother- may God rest her soul- had all
been on the receiving end of my alcohol soaked barbs over the years. Just
kidding about Harry’s mother, I never gave her the business, and as far as I
know she’s alive and well in Newark- I’m not a monster for God’s sake.
Kidding aside, in short I didn’t feel like I had the right to
speak up. It would’ve been like the pot with the brand new raven paint job,
calling the kettle black.
Unfortunately (or fortunately depending on which side you favor), the
escapades continued, with another incident following shortly after the last. This
time, I was left behind, amidst a crowd of flesh eating zombies. Well, in a
manner of speaking anyway, Harry got so inebriated at the city’s zombie walk
that year that I guess he simply forgot he was with me. While I was answering
nature’s call in one of the conveniently located port-o-potties, Harry thought
it okay to leave me at the event. Under normal circumstances this wouldn’t have
been so bad, except Harry had been my ride there.
So remember that whole finding new girlfriends thing I mentioned
earlier? Well by some fortunate twist of fate we had managed to do exactly
that. Only difference between Harry and I was that I was determined to keep
mine. After a few trips to Vegas where I
was not on the guest list, Harry had managed to hook up with a stripper. And as
you might’ve guessed Harry was not sly enough to keep this from his new
girlfriend. She promptly dumped him, after which Harry called (you guessed it)
me, to confide in.
A new behavior developed. We ceased going out, as Harry declared
he wasn’t up to the task. Instead, he would phone me on Sunday afternoons and
ask for advice about her, how he missed her, how he messed up, how he might win
the girl back. I was perfectly willing
to lend an ear, and give him a bit of guidance. Honestly speaking, it was a
welcome change of pace to be able to do so without both of our elbows connected
to a bar top.
The Sunday calls continued, though a few weeks passed and on a Friday,
I received a text from Harry asking me to meet him at one of our favorite
breweries to discuss a new girl he was seeing. I wasn’t shocked at this
revelation. As I imagined negotiations with the ex had fallen through. So meet
we did.
At the start of this palaver, he told me about this girl in great
detail. None of it flattering, except for the fact that she knew how to take a
good selfie- a box one must always check in searching for a mate- be they
temporary or permanent. The two of us
had never beat around the bush with one another, and protocol determined that I
not deviate from that. I was straightforward when I told him that I thought he
was wasting his time with this new girl, and she seemed like she was hiding
something from him.
Regrettably, I didn’t have the wherewithal to stop there. You see,
the evening had been whiled away through the consumption of many beers. My
mouth got the better of me, or perhaps more accurately the alcohol had. My
words became callous, venomous to the point they were needlessly hateful. In
our grand tradition Harry was keen to the fact that I had too much. If he was
offended by my speech, he didn’t let on; in fact he offered to drive me home.
In slurred vocabulary, I accepted.
That Sunday commenced with another call from Harry, this one
proclaiming that he was in fact reuniting with his ex-girlfriend and had broke
it off with the one I had warned him about. All seemed well, all seemed
forgiven. All seemed natural.
Then a funny thing happened; I never heard from Harry again.
Following that Sunday chat, I reached out to Harry to see how
things were going with the ex. No
response. A call a few days later. No
answer. Facebook message (I was
getting desperate ok?). Nothing.
Texts. Nada…
Now don’t let your mind go to the worst scenario, I have it on
good authority that Harry is in fact alive and well. We share mutual friends,
and I know that he’s still breathing. What I can’t put together is why the
radio silence? What I can’t conceive of is why the mystery?
Six months have passed since the two of us have seen or spoken to
each other.
What boggles my mind is now, looking back why I called Harry a
friend to begin with. But the thing I
question most of all?
I wonder if he knows that even if he called me today, by God I’d
still be there for him just like we never skipped a beat.
