I’ve been trying to write a letter to her mother. Something like this:

I was going to stop by on my last trip to Toronto, but part of me realized it may have made things complicated, since it’d be the first time since we stopped talking to each other. Not that I was scared you would take a side, but because I didn’t want you to think I was forcing that decision on you.

All I want to say is that I miss all of you terribly, she was special, and it’s a pity things didn’t work out. But it was much beyond our control. I don’t know if either of us will ever grow out of these differences that hold us back.

The last time I came to visit, it was almost 2pm on a Tuesday and you were both at work. I scratched a note on the back of a notepad to let you know I stopped by, and she told me you liked me so much, you stuck it on your fridge. That always meant a lot.

Thanks for everything.

But all of it comes out sounding defensive. I wish I could explain how I’m not angry but sad, which is a testament to how great they were. I can’t figure out how to put the ball in their court, to let them know that if they’re okay with it, and she’s okay with it, we can still be friends. I really don’t know how appropriate that would be anyway.

Sometimes, the hardest part of giving up the girls is giving up their parents too.

We cover a lot of ground on the drive, stuff I wouldn’t admit to just anyone. It’s good to have a set amount of time for some one on one. We see each other at parties, but it’s never time by ourselves.

We get there a few hours early because it isn’t so much about the game as hanging out with the two friends I don’t see enough. There’s a cooler full of snow and beer, and the food is coming in protein; pigs-in-blankets, ground beef nachos, chicken fingers, crab dip, meat balls.

For a night, I’m with guys who punch arms, exchange verbal jabs, and laugh at blue collar jokes. Two little girls run around, and no one ever lets that change them. Now they’re fathers, but they’ll always be real men.

I hope this reaches you. I don’t know how else to contact you.

I know we haven’t talked in a while. It’s not like we ended on bad terms or anything — far from it. For me, high school was filled with people in that uncomfortable category known as “acquaintances”. And while we never hung out much outside of school, I still considered you somewhat close for a schoolmate, cause the fact of the matter is that I didn’t hang out with anyone outside of school.

I’m glad I was in the same house as you, and that for part of it, your locker was across from mine. In many ways, I used to look up to you. You were different from everyone, but you fit in everywhere. You carried yourself with a combination of humanity and intelligence. On more than one occasion, you taught me how to be a decent person in a way that my parents never could, without even realizing it I bet.

To be honest, I don’t look back on my days at UCC very fondly. They were awkward and uncomfortable for me. The only person I keep in touch with on a regular basis is John. Aside from him and a few others, I was glad to leave my UCC past behind me. I still think of you from time to time though, whether it’s out of concern or curiosity.

I’m coming to Toronto in a few weeks, and was hoping we could meet up. I’d like to find out what you’ve been up to in the last ten years, because you used to be good at anything you were interested in. Maybe you’ve changed as much as I have. I remember you as a good person, and as I get older, I’m learning that good people are few and far between. I’d like to keep in touch with the ones I’ve been fortunate enough to know.

— Jeff

The rite of passage for the males of our generation — the generation of the metrosexual and hairless pornstar — is getting waxed. As an act of true love for Sheila in enduring the pain, John asked me if I would clean up the hair on his back and arms. I agreed, as long as I could film it.

Waxing John from Jeff Ngan on Vimeo.

I suppose that near the end of the video my sadistic side comes out when I start to laugh, or dare I say, enjoy hearing him scream.

“This is like true friendship”, he says, “Waxing your best friends back when you’ve got a Y-chromosome”.

Sometimes, all I need is a friend to support me.

Even the times when I know I’m stupid or illogical. Especially those times, I just want someone to listen and agree.

I remember Aaron going through a rough patch a couple years ago. He told me he couldn’t let Rob know, because Rob would have jumped in his car and busted open some heads. Aaron confided in me because he needed an objective opinion to work through the situation, whereas Rob may have hurt more than help.

Even though I agreed, I felt like Rob’s ardent personality was a sign of true brotherhood. It doesn’t matter what the logic is, it doesn’t matter what the reasons are, your enemies are his enemies. It’s almost like he’s blinded by his love.

And as much as there are times when Aaron doesn’t tell Rob something, I’m sure there are times when doesn’t tell me things either because he needs an fervent friend. He needs someone who will take his side no matter what. I know I do.

Don’t get me wrong; I have plenty of friends I can go to for an honest opinion. In fact, I go to them more often than not. John’s always there to contradict me and keep me in check, Pat’s there to rationalize the situation, and Aaron’s there to help me find a solution. But every now and then, the unconditional support of an ardent friend gives me strength and courage more than anything else.

Everyone should have such security. To be able to call someone at any time of day who’ll be there in a heartbeat¹. Everyone should have a friend like Rob in their lives.

The ardent friends are just as important as the objective ones.

1. Of course, you have to earn that kind of respect from Rob, because he doesn’t give it to just anyone. [↑]

So I deleted your numbers off my speed dial. I took down your pictures. It was an in-the-moment thing.

I’m calm now, seeing things objectively, yet still undecided.

Part of me wants to believe we can still be friends. That we can still hang out without me depending on you for anything. But I’m not like that, and I don’t stay friends with those on whom I can’t depend.

I cried, not only because you weren’t there when I needed you, not only because you had a responsibility to my friends as well, but because I never allow those who hurt me so much to be a part of my life. Our friendship may be lost, and this is what upsets me the most. Perhaps it hurts so much because you were so important to me. I don’t want to lose that, but I’ll never forget what you did and I’ll never trust you again.

And if I can forgive you, you’ll know that I truly love you.

My boss caught me crying in my office. He must have heard me hyperventilating, because my back was turned.

I have to be strong now. For my friends. This day isn’t about me, it’s about them.

And that’ll be enough to get me through.

Sometimes I feel like I don’t offer anything to Pat. I call him for advice all the time, ask him to give me rides (groceries, furniture, large items on which he bargains), vent to him. He grew up relying on nobody but himself, so he never asks me for any favours, and I suppose he has Jen with whom to express his feelings.

Maybe this is the root of my insecurity. Pat’s friendship with me appears diluted. We’d both take a bullet for our friends, but mine is a far more exclusive club than his.

Pat doesn’t need me.

But I need him.

Bronwen started dating another guy.

It’s funny, my first reaction is to think another guy, as if we’re still dating ourselves. I suppose our relationship has never been conventional, but that’s what makes it so special. We still spend our weekends together. We still talk on the phone for hours without actually talking. We’re close enough that I’m completely comfortable around her, enough for me to let my guard to go down.

It’s made me realize how protective I still am of her, how upset I’ll be if she gets hurt. I think of all the things I could have done better, and hope this guy can treat her better than I did.

I have all these mixed feelings about it though. I’m worried that I may lose my friend, but I’m glad there’s someone to make her happy. In the end, I know I can’t be selfish. Letting go of her the first time was hard enough.

Doing it again doesn’t make it any easier.

Left screen, I’m going over the bachelor party footage. We’re recovering from a night of drinking over bacon and eggs in a high-corner wide-angle shot. Right screen, I’m talking to Aaron on Messenger.

Aaron: bro, you know I love you
Aaron: like for real
Aaron: no shit
Jeff: thanks man, i love you too
Aaron: no ‘you’re my bro’ shit
Aaron: the real deal

“No ‘You’re my bro’ shit”, he says. Bro. The word we sometimes use to remind each other that we’re family. Nothing emasculates some like the “l” word, but we’re passed that.

“you know I love you”. He was first to say it this time, and it catalyzes the tears down my face.

The video’s still playing. In it we’re ebullient, fraternizing, and I can’t help but laugh along too.

I remember another time, about three years ago, when I broke down after dealing with my mom and her incorrigible ways. I rolled a joint and smoked it as soon as I got off the phone. As the weed went to my brain, my mood evened out. I was numb to the pain but the tears didn’t stop, like a physical reflex.

Life is the same way. It’s never black and white, and there’s no absolute right or wrong. There are grey areas, points of passion between pleasure and pain.

Even crying from joy is an enigmatic microcosm of such an idea. I remember doing so only one other time, at the end of grade 7, during the final auditions for Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. Out of 10 schools, we were competing to spend the summer singing on stage with Donny Osmond. When they announced the name of our school we jumped out of our seats in cheer, but I could feel my face grimace from the emotion, tears filling up my eyes. It’s as if you’re overtaken by sadness that you’ll never feel as happy again.

Like yin and yang, one doesn’t exist without the other, and often they exist at once.

Hey Pat,

I don’t know how serious you thought I was about being the best man or MC if you ever get married. I know it may sound crazy, but you getting married is as important to me as it is to you. I love you, and I know I don’t tell you that enough. You are a true friend to me, and you know that I don’t have many.

I see this as a great opportunity to do something for you, because you’ve already done so much for me. Let me take on the responsibility and support you, to be there for you on one of the most important days of your life. I easily put aside the differences I’ve had with any potential people you may invite (I think that we’re smart enough to be open and discuss this), because it’s about you, not me.

These things are usually planned pretty well in advance though, so I won’t be surprised if you have someone else in mind. I understand that we’re talking about YOUR big day, so you should have the people YOU want involved in YOUR wedding. To be honest, I’ll be happy with whatever decision you make, because I’m happy if you’re happy. Bottom line.

In any case, let me know when you pop the question, and WE WILL FEAST.

  —Jeff

I wrote this two years ago.

Pat proposed to Jen a couple of months later. Several months after that, they bought a house, delaying the wedding until this year.

Last week, Pat asked me to be a groomsman and co-MC.

When I found out that Jason would be best man (as well as the other MC) there was a tinge of jealousy in my heart, followed by an overwhelming sense of guilt about this jealousy.

To feel this way was a bit of a surprise. Jealously has never been one of my prominent emotions. It made me realize that I’m a little insecure in my relationship with Pat. There’s so much good in him, compared to the hatred, darkness, and weakness in me. He’s not my opposite, but he’s the person I’m constantly striving to become. Just being around him makes me feel elated and relaxed.

The frustrating thing is that I know it’s his wedding. He should be able to do whatever he wants. There’s no rivalry between Jason and me. As studier of people, I have every bit of faith in Pat’s decision. The logic has finally kicked in, and I feel a sense of warmth and security about being up there with Pat, a group exclusive to a handful of people out of a seemingly endless number.

It’s only now that I realize how selfish and inappropriate it was of me to ask. Running around, making sure everyone is having a good time, giving toasts, hosting games, the duty of MC isn’t even something I normally want to do. I only asked because it was a way that I could show how much Pat has done for me, a responsibility I’d take on gladly.

I’m scared that I made him feel obliged, and I’m ashamed of being jealous for that split-second.

A feeling that overwhelms logic.

A short detour, 80 km, Toronto to Hamilton.

We met up with Sandra for dinner. Prior to this, I only knew Sandra as John’s “best friend from school”, the one he spends most his time with when he’s not with his girlfriend. On the drive up my curiosity was killing me. Was this Sandra person a threat to my friendship with John? Would she eventually replace me as the one he goes to with his problems, his insecurities, his excitements, and would I lose my best friend in return?

No.

Social graces dictate that you don’t strike up a dinner conversation on which not everyone can opine, but when you get two legal-minded people together, there’s isn’t much non-law-student can do but listen and observe.

They got along well, but there’s a certain level of intimacy missing. They still feel each other out, whereas John and I have conversations with a single look. When we left, I was reassured of my position as best friend, and felt silly about how I could be so insecure about a bond so strong.

300 km, Hamilton to Windsor.

I had never been to Windsor before. It’s always remained a place in my head, never tangible, because it’s always John who visits me. Windsor is where he goes to law school, where he spends the majority of the year, and where he works. This was the first chance I had to submerge myself in his life and lifestyle.

I went to work with him at the community law office. It’s here that he shares an open office with a dozen other students, who defend clients from bad landlords, tenants, parents, children, shoplifters, or any other type of living thing.

Law students are a different breed. They’re people who have initiative, who can be extroverted at the right time. After work, they meet at a pub, sit on the patio, and talk about their cases, about the crown attorneys who have vendettas against them, about moronic clients who speak out of turn and plead guilty to a charge before a bargain can be reached.

I was a fish out of water.

Given a short tour of the University of Windsor, I took a few quick snaps.

The first night we arrived in Windsor, John noticed the window was open, with a note from his girlfriend about caring for the hibiscus just outside. He stuck his head out the window to see. “How fitting”, he said. “The plant has fallen over, and died”.

Minutes before leaving for the next part of our trip, they broke up.

Moving is often a task I avoid at all costs. The mess of packing, booking elevators, organizing rides, and physically shifting dirty boxes around becomes a lot more complicated than I care for. Being approached to help move by a close friend is a different story, however, as it becomes one of the few times that I can prove how much I’m willing to do for them.

It thus becomes a rather galvanizing scene to arrive with a party of friends at a doorstep, ready to help bring someone else into another phase in their life. This weekend was no exception, when helping Pat and Jen settle into their new place, a newly built four bedroom house out in the west end. Through most of last week, Pat and Jen had already moved the small items themselves, so the only things that were left were the bulky furniture. There were only eight of us, but we were finished before we knew it.

Pat and Jen paid us in beer, pizza, and wings, but given the fact that they had already done most of the work, we hardly deserved it. The rest of the day was spent playing Mario Power Tennis, Donky Konga, and table tennis.

Helping them moving was a reminder of how we’re all growing up. Getting married, getting old.

I once asked Darren, the only other male cousin with whom I share a Generation name, whether he thought we’d end up like our fathers, two brothers who also share their own. Our fathers who are moody, wasted old men who work too hard, and don’t get enough sleep. Before we realized it though, we had already turned into them, surviving the days on mostly restless sleep.

Look at us now. Pat and Jen are engaged, starting their family here. Aaron and Karen are one block away.

And the couples take home leftovers the way the parents do at all the Christmas parties during the holidays.