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.”
