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.
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.
What a strange feeling it was to be crying and laughing or stoned at the same time.
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.
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 WEWILLFEAST.
—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.
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.
Being transferred to Bayview Glen in grade five was my first private school experience. The change from Catholic school was subtle; aside from the better funded facilities and passionate teachers, the only discernable difference was the manditory uniform. It was there that I met John in my classes, but back then he was the bully who threw me against a wall at first recess. My parents intervened in the form of an angry phonecall to the teacher, and I learned never to tell them about my problems at school again, out of fear that I would be emasculate me.
John maintained a reputation as one of the kings of the playground. At that age, he was a precocious pre-teen, matching machismo with Daniel Cappon for the attention of Pamela Arstikitis, the acerbic, metal-mouthed, blonde beauty. I remained blissfully young and ignorant, and we never really got along.
In grade seven, he changed schools to Upper Canada College, as his grandfather had done over fifty years ago, while I went through both the test and interview, and didn’t make the cut. Our parents knew of the school’s prestigious reputation and yearned desperately for their respective sons to be alumnus. Two years later I made a successful second attempt, and moved there too.
I was by myself, in a school full of jocks, academics, and artistic esoterics. John’s reputation didn’t follow him to this institution, where he was the odd, alienated, aloof, young man, while I remained the small, dysfunctional boy who never fit in anywhere. We were seperate loners, and our individuality is what brought us together. We never had any classes together, so lunches were spent philosophizing on the bleachers when the weather permitted, or misbehaving in Mr. Lorne’s classroom, throwing textbooks at each other in the winter. Eventually we went our seperate ways in university, and John was the only person I kept in touch with.
In the summer between grade seven and eight, as part of the children’s choir of Bayview Glen, we auditioned for a part in the Canadian premier of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. This consisted of a demo tape, a semi-final competition between 25 schools, and finals of 10, with only four school choirs being selected. The judges told us to hold our celebration until all the finalists were announced, but by the time we were called, we couldn’t hold it in, and let out with a thunderous roar. It was the only time in my life that I was so happy I cried.
The picture of our choir, roughly 25 students between the ages of 10 and 14, ended up in the performance booklets that were handed out to the audience as they walked from the lobby to their seats in the Elgin Theatre. We were far from friends back then, but we stood next to each other. I still don’t understand why.
Twelve years later.
John’s haircut hasn’t deviated from a hastily brushed mop. Mine, on the other hand, has gone through various stages of shaggyness, poofiness, and occasional what-was-I-thinking. It’s just like the two of us. John did all his growing up before he was 12, and at his core he’s essentially the same person now as he was back then, while I continue the never-ending cycle of learning and growing.
And this will probably be true in another 15 years.
Pita was over for the weekend. He had a competition in the city, in both Standard and Latin, and needed a place to crash. He tells me that he’s at the point where he’s stuck between achieving a higher level and prioritizing the sport as a recreation, especially after coming back empty-handed this weekend when he won two golds at the last competition. 25 is getting old for a competitive dancer, and his instructor, who’s the same age as him, is already the Canadian champion.
I have an interesting relationship with Pita. He was the first person I met when I moved to this city, sharing a room on the 15th floor of a residency. Similar interests and intellects meant that we got along much better than the other pairs of frosh roommates, most of whom got stuck with the crazy, the irrational, and the disgusting. We went separate ways the next year, but moved into an apartment together for the following two years. After parting ways as roommates, when he moved 12000 kilometres to the place he was born, before coming back to this country, we didn’t speak to each other for more than eighteen months.
Now, whenever I see him, whenever he’s in town visiting old friends or participating in competitions, we can greet each other without formalities and just pick up where we left off. It’s on odd state between acquaintance and friendship. We share ourselves, and what we’ve learned and how we’ve changed since last seeing each other, but never keep in touch otherwise. We also give each other perspective. He often speaks as if he’s asking for advice or guidance, without actually asking. I offer my point of view, which he always interprets in a different way than intended, and this keeps me on my toes.
He admitted to me that in his car, when he’s driving alone, there’s a compulsion to put together the details of his father as he writes in his mind the speech for the eventual day that a eulogy will need to be delivered. The only other person he’s admitted this to is his girlfriend, who’s labeled the practice as rather disturbing. Morbid, I’ll agree, as his father is far from passing, but not as strange as she makes it out to be. In return, I admit to him that I do the same thing when I piece together stories of his life for the speech I’ll be delivering as best man at his wedding, an event just as grave, and every bit as tragic.
True friends stab you in the front
Keep you from getting what you want
When one more fix could kill you
They help you realize that
You’re more and less than you first had believed
You’ve so much to give and there’s so much you need
Shortcuts through graveyards and a brand new way to breathe
Three thousand miles just to learn
All that’s gold does not all shine
And helping words aren’t always kind
When one more kiss could kill you
They help you realize that
You’re more and less than you first had believed
You’ve so much to give and there’s so much you need
Shortcuts through graveyards and a brand new way to breathe
Three thousand miles just to learn
How to let my guard down
—Thrice,The Beltsville Crucible
When you look back at the problems you faced a year ago, they seem insignificant compared to the problems you face now. Finding out how things end up, and seeing the path that your actions have paved, makes everything passed seem simple and logical. Even knowing this, I still look back on a time when I was faced with a troubling dilemma, a situation where I continue to wonder what I may have done differently. At the time, I brought my troubles up to Darren, a person with whom I could always confide without being judged.
His advice was to give no advice at all. He told me that he understood how I dealt with my problems, being one to always weigh the options carefully, and that he knew I would make the right decision. Perhaps being his older cousin, the one he himself has always turned to for advice, made the situation strange to him. Nonetheless, it was the first time I had experienced such a trust, and it was heartening to know that someone respected me enough to put his faith in me before I knowing what my choice was.
I admitted this to John, and he told me that the worst mistake he could make was assuming that I would make the right decisions. As he put it, it’s his job to keep me in check and make me constantly question the things that I do. Of course, he always presents things tactfully, so he doesn’t end up hurting more than helping.
Neither Darren or John is more correct than the other, because it all depends on the relationship. You need some friends to understand what you do. You need other friends to stab you in the front. I know I can count on Darren to accept my decisions, and I know I can count on John to give me the honest truth when I need it. The important part is the respect that goes both ways. Without respect, an opinion is meaningless. My introduction to the dominant/submissive lifestyle has given this even more significance.
Gimmie a girl who I can respect enough to understand this, and who can respect me enough to be her crucible.
I value the friend who for me finds time on his calendar, but I cherish the friend who for me does not consult his calendar.
—Robert Brault
I called Pat yesterday. In the past, I’ve always let him call me, since he’s invariably more busy than I am. Even if we try to make plans to hang out, we usually leave off with him getting back to me as soon as he finds out when he’s available next, due to the fact that he likes to be booked a month in advance. This time, I wanted to be the one initiating, because I realized that out of all my friends, I see him the least. Even if we hang out once a month, which may be considered quite sufficient, that’s only 12 times in a year.
The thing that makes it awkward is the fact that I don’t know the make-up of his social calendar. I don’t know how much of his life is devoted to Jen or allocated for other friends. Usually I only see him between events, and he’s always rushing off to do something else. The last thing I want to do is be a selfish person and smother him, especially a person whose time is as valuable as his. This is actually one of the things I worry about, when I know that I shouldn’t (John has recently helped me realize that I overanalyze things). I trust that Pat will let me know when I start taking up too much of his time.
In either case, as usual, he’s going to call me back to have dinner at the Black Tomato. I had to recommend that we go, because I always enjoy myself when I patronizethat restaurant. I also chose to have a meal instead of doing something else, because food is one of Pat’s hobbies. He treated me the last time we had dim sum, when it was actually my turn, so I’m hoping he won’t put up a fight when I go to pay for the bill. In addition to the great fusion food, I’ll have the chance to order a glass of Wynns Coonawarra Estate cabernet sauvignon which I haven’t had the pleasure of tasting for a few months.
A chance to catch up, a chance to get to know Jen better, a chance to try out some new food. It’s going to be good.
