OK—Brothers

“OK, let’s get together and end the friendship,” said Harry.

What?

Had I heard correctly? These words, from a man with a skill for friendship parallel to Yo Yo Ma’s skills on the cello?

What had this man never done for me? 

The hours he had driven to see me, talk with me, console me.

My definition of a friend?

A cold night in January in Wisconsin. Raf had left from Chicago the day before. He was leaving for Puerto Rico, a place I had decided I could not live.

Nor could he live anywhere else.

It was over between us.

We had two wonderful weeks together—we who had been together for five or six years.  But Puerto Ricans—many of them—can live in the States but…

…not flower there.

He needed to come back. I couldn’t live there. Over Christmas in 1989 he came to Puerto Rico, found a job, and then came back. He packed up the apartment—we looked at the empty rooms together. The taxi was on its way.

“It’s going to be hard to find someone as wonderful as you,” he whispered.

My heart was breaking. The ride to the airport was agonizing. Seeing him to the gate—you could back then—was wrenching. I chose not to wait to the bitter end, kissed him, and turned my back.

The gate was at the very end of the terminal. Walking back, fighting sobs, I had the surreal sense of being in a film. The corny airport music was swelling, the credits were rolling…

…the movie was ending.

OK—so what does this have to do with Harry?

The next day—after another sleepless night—I got on the train.

To go see Harry.

It’s a weird thing. The train doesn’t stop at Madison, but at a little town thirty miles north. And though it was only seven or so in the evening—it was pitch black. The station was closed. I waited by the side of the road.

Now, of course, I’d pull out my cell phone. Gentle Readers, there were no cell phones in 1990.

I waited some more. The man I had cherished and held those final two weeks was in a land of warmth and family and sunshine. I was the one vertical thing in an intensely dark, cold, black expanse.

You can imagine the thoughts….

But the one thought I didn’t have?

That Harry wouldn’t come.

Late?

Well, yeah. Harry always knew one place that sold this great bottle of wine—wonderful! And you have to pour it into a broad dish so that it can breathe and then—WOW! The taste, the texture. Incredible!

Or hey, Marc, there’s this movie, see, and you’ve got to see this scene where the hero wakes up and he sees the same damn thing every day and then he realizes….

Right. So Harry was at the liquor store, buying me a special bottle of wine, or getting this INCREDIBLE piece of steak—aged 3 weeks—or searching for this movie I’ve gotta see. He was also on his way.

And there appeared the headlights, getting closer and closer, and then stopping.

I got in. The car was warm. His daughter Chris was in the front seat. In five minutes, all the tension cracked, and we were having yet another of what we always had.

A completely silly conversation.

“Oh, God,” I said. “I just love these moments—these incredibly nonsensical silly moments….”

“You know,” he said, turning serious, “I think life is really made up of the small, little moments. Not the big, dramatic events but the small, ordinary events. Maybe that’s what’s most important….”

He taught me this, as he has taught me so much else. And how many little moments have we shared?

Or bottles of champagne? For January had passed, and it was summer of the same year. I was making a spaghetti sauce that is still remembered. Harry was climbing the back steps.

He had gotten another promotion!

Amazing—a guy who can get a promotion, without actually having a job.

Although he did—sort of. He was a shoe salesman, my philosopher friend, on the south side of Chicago. Not a welcoming place—he more than once found himself physically kicked out of shops. Oh, and there was the time his car got burgled—and he found himself out five hundred bucks of right shoes.

(Shoe salesmen apparently only buy the right shoe—not necessary to have both shoes if you’re selling wholesale….)

So yeah, he had a job, but he was onto something bigger. The TV station—part of the largest chain of stations aimed at the Hispanic market. And they were hot for Harry—the possibilities were endless, the market booming, he had every qualification. Call next week.

First bottle of champagne.

We went to the thrift shop—Harry had the notion that he had to have a light blue shirt with a strong red tie. We shined shoes.

Next week, hey that position? Well, unfortunately there was a hitch. But not to worry, because there is another position available, a position that Harry was ABSOLUTELY made for, and incredible, because…

It paid TWICE as much!

Second bottle of champagne.

Well, it went on and on—that bibulous summer, and Harry went higher and higher, scaling unbelievable heights in a meteoric career that left us—and only us—astounded. He was at one point vice-president.

Also broke. And the rent was due. And Chris was starting university that fall.

And Harry?

He asked me to read him the cards, one night. And sure enough, I pulled Death.

“It doesn’t mean what you think,” I said. “It’s about spiritual transformation, psychic change….”

I didn’t know. Harry was out there alone, driving dark roads at night. About all he had was his life insurance. Chris could go to school on that.

Someone always pulls you back—I learned that a couple of months ago. But sometimes you get pretty far out on the edge.

And now, this good man, this great friend, is proposing to kill the friendship? After all of this? Then I got it—he’s just called to report that he’s buried three good friends in two weeks.

“Right, I understand,” I said. “It’s OK. We’ll be brothers.”