Always A Best Friend - 1. Chapter 1

Always a best friend

By Bryan Harrison

March always finds me here. As if carried on her chilled winds in a flurry of fallen leaves and scraps of discarded memoirs, I alight on this spot, the same spot every year, and wait. The time between my visits is reduced to a blur of inconsequential activity while I sit, patiently watching somber passersby and those who occasionally stop near me to whisper some intimacy between them. They never notice me nor am I concerned with their private intrigues or regrets. Their words whisk by me unabsorbed as I wait... and remember.

It was a lifetime ago that this ritual started, this futile rendezvous, which always leaves me wanting. I have been told to let it go, that it is past me and will only cause me to suffer, but I never respond kindly to such suggestions and those who make them quickly move on to other matters. For all the good of their intentions, they simply do not understand that I have to come. It is what I require of myself. I was, after all, always a best friend.

That's what Gil had told me more than once. It was three times, if I recall.

He said it first when we were just 10, the summer our friendship had first blossomed. I will always remember the heat of that day and the ceaseless foam from the torrent crashing from the mouth of the ravine, over the rocks and into the dirty waters of the Colorado. Gil was crazy as always, standing on the boulders beside the river, jumping from too high, cannon-balling into the water and splashing everything around him; knocking the older boys from their inner tubes, and then fleeing before they got a chance to "kick your ass, you little shit!" I was forced to flee too, for it was all too apparent, our inseparable status.

He was always the faster of the two of us, and bore that status by no small distinction. So, as always, he sped away from the scene of his infraction, leaving me to the mercy of fate and my somewhat reasonable wits. I managed to lead the riled mob, three by number, into a thicket of brush that their larger, maturing bodies could not easily maneuver. I scrambled on knees and elbows, beneath the dirty thickets until I heard a familiar "psssst" coming from a cleared space beyond.

I remember clearly the chill that ran through me as Gil grabbed my hand to pull me from the tangle of brush. But it passed quickly when I saw the mischievous gleam in his eyes and remembered that he'd basically left me for dead. I only had a chance to mutter "Dammit Gil, why you always gotta start some..." before we were off again, racing away from the repeated threats of "ass kicking's" and "fuck you up's" that were still coming through the thickets behind us.

"You're the best," Gil said, when we finally had a chance to stop and catch our breath.

The sound of those words subdued my fear of hearing the older boys crashing through the brush. "What?" I gasped.

"You know. You're the best..." he shrugged, "... friend" he added, explaining himself in his particularly insufficient way, before he dashed out from our shelter of sage to see if our pursuers had figured out which bikes were ours and thrown them in the river or something worse.

They hadn't.

So we worked our way cautiously to the racks and made a stealthy get-away before anyone had even noticed our return to the swimming hole.

I never asked for an explanation of his quick admission, nor was one forthcoming. Rather I was audience to, as usual, all the things he dreamed that he would one day accomplish; the ponderings and improbable fantasies to which I was obliged to listen and respond approvingly, lest I incur his "What? You don't think I could?" speech, that always left me rolling my eyes out of his line of sight.

"OK, Gil. Whatever," was my only escape from his monologues and remained so for the length of our time together.

We were the archetype of opposites, fit snugly together within the spaces between either of our missing elements. He was sure that one day he would take the world by storm. I was sure that eventually a storm would occur that I could not weather. He was a loud pup, strutting his still tender ego boldly, undaunted by the limits placed on us by nature and society. I was a beaten dog too soon in life, tending my sacred insecurities like open wounds, analyzing carefully the boundaries set before me, lest I offend the hypocritical principles they delineated. He was everybody's favorite, with a smile and charm that got him out of more trouble than I'd ever courted. Mine was a disgruntled visage, ever at the edge of the crowd. On those rare occasions when I did chance a smile, the adults around me rightfully suspected I was mocking them and treated me accordingly.

We were hand and glove, though I have always been unsure which of us was fit, and which fitted.

It was perhaps two years later, or maybe three, when he said those words again. It was at the onslaught of that desperate season of change when he repeated them; during the sacred, un-testified period when all boys discover this new plaything; the one we'd had dangling around all our lives but, at the insistence of new and irritating hormones, rediscovered with delightful fascination.

I'd come to visit that day, and found the driveway empty, so I'd made my way in unannounced. He'd not expected my arrival so his surprise and embarrassment was, for a change, at least equal to my own when I quite innocently walked in on his frantic rehearsal.

"Are you ok?" I asked, hearing his roughened breath but not seeing what he was actually up to. The reddened face and shocked eyes that turned to face me were all the more alarming in that I did not immediately understand their reason. I did however quickly glean their meaning when he turned and, apparently too lost in the ‘matter at hand' to relinquish his duty, proceeded to ... how shall I say ... be-seed my shoes?

"Asshole!" I screamed, and jumped out of his line of fire. I immediately regretted those words when I saw how he was bent over, his back hitching as if in tears. Of course he was embarrassed, I would be mortified if anyone (even he) had captured me red handed, (and faced) in the midst of that vulnerable moment. "I'm sorry," I said quickly, reaching out to comfort him, yanking my hand back when I saw that he had yet to pull up his pants. I didn't want him to ... misunderstand?

But he reached up slowly, his face still downcast, his back still hitching in that pathetic way that disturbed me more than anything I'd witnessed. Was this at last some admittance of frailty, some grasp for a shoulder upon which to lean? Was I to be the confidante of this secret admission? I reached out, not sure how I would fare in this new status, and took his hand in mine.

That's when I realized that his were not the tremors of tears, but of laughter. Then I saw what he had wiped on my palm.

"You shit!" I yelled. My indignation was unrelenting this time. The illusionary Gil had disappeared and my familiar old other-half was back, hollering unapologetic laughter as I wiped his extract from my hand.

"Hey! That's my Mom's towel!" he roared, suddenly serious, and grabbed me away. I was about to make what should have been an unnecessary reminder of the reason for my soiled hand when he said, "Use this one," and tossed me a much larger cloth, one which had obviously been used for this particular type of cleaning before. I hesitated momentarily before using it, sensing some trick that I could not predict. But he only smiled.

"You're the best, man," he said, buckling up.

There it was again.

"What?" I asked, incredulous.

"What do you mean, what?" he responded. "You're the best friend I ever had."

His ill-timed admissions always disabled my ability to react. There I was standing in the bathroom, cleaning his mess from my hand, noticing with alarm that some of it was already drying on my shoes, and then he suddenly springs up with a moment of adolescent bonding?

"OK Gil. Whatever!" I said, trying to play off that strange, giddy feeling that bubbled inside when he spoke this way.

"Seriously, Perry, you are," he said and for a moment his eyes displayed a sincerity I'd never seen in him. "Shake?" he said, putting out his hand ... his favorite hand ... the one that had slimed me.

"No thanks," I said, "I think I've had enough of you on me for a while."

His private little handshake joke went on for months, long past the time it was funny, and it didn't stop until I threatened to tell everyone how it had come into being.

It must have been around our 17th year when I heard those words again, well past the time that Gil's manly functions were any source of embarrassment to him. He had indeed mastered his masturbations and grown bored of them, preferring the assistance of the fairer half of the species, of which there were plenty who willingly volunteered. I too had grown weary of practicing alone, though I had taken interest in a branch of the species more familiar to me.

I only remember his admissions because they are so uncharacteristic of his peculiar brand of myopic narcissism; that self-consumed machismo to which I was always baffled to see girls respond. I possessed none of it, wanted none of it, and did not find it particularly pleasant to be in his company when he turned it on. So I stayed away from him during those nights he was out "cruising for pussy", as he so eloquently put it. I wound up staying away more often than not as our years grew and our interests lead our lives down different winding paths.

His was the world of postures and challenges, of the loud sport of chasing evasive acquisitions. I was lost in the realm of poetry and idle thoughts, a misplaced dreamer, adrift on a sea of illusive and troubled metaphors.

In time, we scarcely knew each other.

So I was all the more surprised to find him standing in my doorway one night, drunk and reeling from the injustice of some insult to his manhood.

"That bitch!" he'd said for about the tenth time since I'd dragged him from my doorway and into the lawn so Mother wouldn‘t see or hear him. "I can't believe that bitch!"

"Ok, Gil. Whatever."

"Don't try that shit on me Perry!" he said, his eyes suddenly ablaze. "I know what you're doing, and it's bullshit, man! It's... " he stopped a moment to burp and gather whatever composure he had left. "I'm fucked up, man and just need to... I just need..."

"You need to sit and be quiet. I'll be right back," I whispered, and went to retrieve Mother's keys, feigning some urgent need for chili-fries in order to secure use of the vehicle they mastered.

I've not been completely forthcoming about our differing paths. To be more truthful, I'd developed a bit of a reputation in the years since our hormones kicked in. It is a reputation that usually follows those odd young men that take more interest in poetry and art than football and ‘chasing pussy'. But unlike many of my fellow "geeks", I was completely deserving of that reputation, unabashedly so.

Gil knew this, and although he would never face up to it, it was the reason we had not seen each other in so long. ‘People would talk,' is how he would have put it, I am sure, if the subject had ever come up. But it hadn't. I harbor no resentment for Gil, however. The little desert hovel in which we had spent our youth was not the most forgiving to those who strayed outside the boundaries set by its testosterone-drunk forefathers. I could only assume my ‘best friend' status had been seriously jeopardized by my unwillingness to comply with that specific societal normalcy.

But I was surprised again, when Gil turned to me and, in a gesture I had to interpret as a weak attempt at intimacy, squeezed my shoulder and shook me roughly.

"You're the best, Peeerrry" he slurred.

"You're drunk, Giiiillll" I replied.

"No seriously, man. I know about you man. And it's cool. You're still, you know... the best. Sure, all the guys talk shit and... well that's just the guys. That's what they do, you know..." Then his eyes flashed on something in the road then and he was sudden sober. "Turn here!" he yelled.

I had just enough time to twist the wheel down a back street as he craned his neck around to check the progress of the massive black demon of a truck that whizzed past us.

"Shit!" he said, shaking his head. "That was fucking Thompson's truck. If he sees me with..." his wits were stunted enough to begin that sentence, but not so much that he would finish.

"The best, um-hmm," I said softly, somehow managing to mask the pain behind my words. To his credit he did not increase the offense by pretending he had meant something else.

"Let's smoke a joint," is what he said instead, and pointed towards the dark side of town. I knew there was only one place there he could be referring to. ‘The Slab' by name. A place under the bridge that exited town; a place where lonely men go to find solace in the fretful caresses of other anonymous strangers.

Under normal circumstances my immediate reaction would have been to ask ‘why there?' But the sting of him hiding his face was too fresh a wound. A guarded, "OK," was all I could manage as I turned towards a place I knew all too well.

We arrived quickly, zipping through back streets so he would not risk being noticed in my company. It was a shaky, unspoken agreement. We stopped finally in the shadows cast by yellow streetlights that glowed weakly against the cluster of trees surrounding the quickly flowing river. He jumped out of the car, leaned against the hood and lit the weed. He sucked in a chest-full and made that funny sneezing sound that seemed to suggest what serious work dope smoking could be. I followed moments after and leaned beside him. It was then that I knew I could never go back to being his anonymous sidekick, the brunt of his un-admitted jokes.

"I can't do this anymore," I said finally. Amazingly I did not have to explain what I was talking about.

"Shit Perry, people talk." I knew those words would eventually be spoken. "Look, man. We lead different lives... you know?" He stopped to puff and his face took on that dreamy quality that always prefaced his disjointed THC induced monologues. "This place sucks man and... see, if we were in L.A.... yeah L.A. Now, that would be cool. I'm gonna go there just after I turn 18 man. Fuck this shit! He puffed and exhaled and continued. "And then it'll all be cool. They got lot'sa shit for guys like me to get involved in. Make some good money."

"Ok Gil," I said, snatching the joint before he could suck it all away. "Whatever."

He looked at me seriously then, as if in the grip of an epiphany. "You too man! You should come with me. There's a lot of..." he stopped there, his forehead wrinkled as he considered what word would be appropriate. "Lot's of guys like ‘that' and shit. You could, I dunno... read poems or something; go to college and learn to do whatever the fuck it is you want." Shockingly, his fantasies were now involving me. I was left wondering whether I should be honored or if would it be better that I run, screaming, into the night.

"Would we leave together," I asked, "or should I meet up with you after we cross the county line?" There was a hint of sobriety in his expression before he looked away. Silence ensued for what might have been minutes. The joint grew too small for any practical use and I tossed it away. We were finally alone.

"I never ever talked any shit behind your back, Perry. I always walk away when people start," he explained defensively.

"Did you ever defend me?"

"What?"

"What do you mean ‘what'? Did you ever take my side and tell those assholes, ‘fuck you, this guy is my best friend and has been since we were kids and if he decides he wants to take it up the ass, then that's just his fuckin' business."

He grimaced at such a blatant reference to the difference between us. "Awww, man. See you shouldn't talk that way. That's why the guys have such a hard time with it! Why you have to make a big deal of everything? Why can't you just... just act normal, right?"

"I am acting normal, Gil. For me. I'm not the one who has to hide his..." But I stopped at the expression on his face. He looked horrified, his eyes fixed on something behind me. I followed his gaze to a point along the canal road and what I saw made me rush to the car door.

"Come on, before they see you!" I hissed. But Gil was already working his way into the shadows of the trees, whispering urgently as he slid away.

"If you start the car now," he said, "they'll hear it and they'll come over here and they'll see me and ... aww shit man! What the fuck was I thinking coming here?"

"Relax Gil," I whispered, hearing the rumble of the engine getting closer, " I'll lead them away and come back for you."

"Hey, faggot!"

The menace in that voice was worse than the words themselves. I turned to see Brett Thompson's demon black truck. His face was grimacing though the window, through a sheen of beer-sweat and ragged whiskers. Some other beast, massive, drunk and snapping his knuckles, jumped from the passenger side and walked quickly to where I stood.

"Where's the fuckin' guy you were with?" Brett barked.

"What guy?" I managed, trembling. Brett considered this a moment and then stepped out of his truck.

"So you're alone?" he asked. "And what do you faggots do alone out here? Smoke your own pole?" The knuckle-snapping minion cackled mindlessly at Brett's attempted humor. Brett seemed reassured by the phony laughter and flexed his shoulders to imply what was coming next.

They wanted to see me tremble, I knew that. They wanted to see the little faggot cry and beg for a reprieve from the standard issue violence that was inevitable. But I couldn't give them what they wanted. A calm descended on me as I finally realized that I understood Gil. He too had things that he feared. I suddenly understood that all that all those moments I had assumed him to be jerking me around had actually been sincere; that I was the caretaker of his hidden insecurities, and, somehow, that thought gave me some new measure of strength.

"You're a fucking dumb piece of shit, Thompson," I said, not believing the words issued from me so easily. "And you'll probably wind up like the rest of the refuse in this fucking town; a pathetic wife beater as clueless as you are drunk. So, considering the source, I am afraid your hatred doesn't much matter to me."

Brett and his minion were shocked into confusion. Their expressions were so dumbfounded that I actually had to laugh. But just briefly, before I feigned a move for the car door and then dashed over the canal road and towards the thickets that lined river, hearing the oafs come crashing through the brush behind me. ‘Run Gil run,' I thought as I fled, racing only with fate, since I had already exhausted the resource of my somewhat reasonable wits. They'd never find me in the dark, I decided with frantic logic, and chasing me they'd give Gil plenty of time to...

Then I heard something whizzing through the air behind me. I ducked and it hissed by my head, landing with a thud in the darkness beyond me. Were they throwing rocks? There was something so childish about this that I was forced to laugh again. But only briefly, before I heard another, and the night broke into a billion sparkling lights that faded into blackness and the feel of cold wet currents bearing me away.

That's all I can remember from that night, so many years ago.

So I take time from my new life to meet him here, once a year, at this spot. I know he appreciates what I did, but he is ever Gil and has not yet learned to voice his feelings appropriately. He will probably come as always, somber and self-pitying, and leave without speaking the words he knows he eventually must.

Last year he brought a little girl with him. But he did not stay long, just enough time to don a stoic pose and mutter some nonsensical, guarded apology before leaving quietly.

She is here with him again; bigger now and strong enough to walk on her own. So he set her down and she dashed to play among the flowers that line the walls of this place. His face is different now, softer and creased from the pressing concerns of fatherhood. He approached slowly, and stood quietly for moments before he spoke.

"Hi, old buddy."

I said nothing. He was not daunted by my silence, and continued.

"They finally got Thompson and Booker for what they did. I never saw it man, I..." He dropped his head for a moment before he continued. "I ran that night. I was so fucking scared, man." There was another moment of silence before his words took on a new vulnerability. "You were always the brave one, really. You were the one who wasn't afraid to be yourself." Then a tear rolled down his cheek and his face trembled an uncharacteristic swelling of emotion. Was he suddenly maturing on me?

"To what do I owe this atypical display?" I asked, incredulously.

"I'm sorry, Perry, God I am so fucking sorry. Please forgive me, man. I..." I was left waiting; anticipating what words lay on the verge of his admission. But he did not finish his thought. Instead, he put his fingers to his mouth, kissed them as tenderly as I'd ever imagined his lips against my own, and pressed them gently against the stone marker that bore my name.

"You were always my best friend," he whispered. Then he turned and walked away.

"I love you, Gil," I cried as he gathered his daughter and left forever. But I knew he could not hear me.

It does not matter anyway.

I'll never have to come back again.

End