Monday, April 17, 2006
Spring 1989 - The Lost Episode
I’ve been trying to figure out how to (or even if I should) respond to your most recent post. Part of me thought that it should be left to stand on its own. Another part of me felt compelled to respond as perhaps an addendum or footnote to your recollection of all that happened January through May 1989. I was also unsure how to post my response. I figured it would be too long to qualify as a “Comment” so here you go for what it’s worth.
It seems you’ve done a great deal of introspection since 1989 likely the result of trying to figure out what the hell happened all those years ago. I’d also expect that there is a little bit of “And how did I get so lucky to be where I am today?” going on as well.
For better or worse your post has been a catalyst bringing back (or perhaps dredging up) all sorts of memories. Some things I hadn’t thought of in years, many I suppose long repressed. My frame when thinking about those days has always been as it relates my own situation Senior year: my father announcing his plans to divorce my mother a week before sending me back to SLU for one final late-August trip North; the gut-wrenching news of Mom’s terminal cancer the following February; the final insult of her chemotherapy-caused stroke that paralyzed her right side effectively eliminating her ability to speak; and her inevitable death three weeks after graduation. Even without those extreme circumstances it would have been a difficult time – the dissolution of (or perhaps more accurately the eviction from) a familiar, secure and coddling environment and the ushering-in of adulthood and the “real world.” Divorce and cancer aside it would have been unsettling.
I don’t remember much of our friendship and interactions during our final semester probably because there really wasn’t much of either. I remember being excited to see you after your semester in London and looking forward to hanging out again. I remember sitting at a local bar sipping a beer watching a breaking news report about the Lockerbie flight and rushing home to call your house to make sure you were OK and the relief I felt learning from your Mom you were fine. I remember our first “reunion” in the mailroom and your rather disaffected reaction to seeing me again contrasted with my enthusiasm. And I remember you spending lots of time in your room. I don’t blame you for what seemed at the time like the terminus of our friendship. There is more I could have done had I simply taken the opportunity. I could have spent time talking to you and trying to figure out what was wrong. I could have tried to help you. There is so much more I could have done as a friend but I was too wrapped up wrestling my own demons I was incapable of being supportive.
I also remember your brief stint as Phi Kap’s housefather and unceremonious replacement by me. At the time I am sure this felt like a betrayal. I honestly had no plans to step into your shoes when I drove north from Syracuse that weekend. Like you I had nowhere to go – Mom had died three months prior and Dad was engaged to Gwyneth making me as welcome as a houseguest who has overstayed his already unwanted visit. I had packed my Honda and was planning a trip west to see what would happen. Having no plans made the opportunity to live room and board free in that familiar and coddling environment very appealing. So off you went out the side door by the pool room in your packed Blazer to Boston. And there I was in the House Father Suite in Phi Kap. I suspect neither of us had any idea what to do next. So we drifted for about five years with little interaction. The interaction we had was forced at best – pleasantries extended more like muscle memory than an honest dialogue.
Finally, I remember getting your phone call at my apartment in St. Louis the summer of 1994. I remember hearing the hesitation in your voice. Your wondering if I’d be happy to hear from you or give you an earful of vitriol. I tried to act pissed but I couldn’t. I was so happy that you had finally crawled out of your cave. There was a flurry of phone calls between the two of us for a week catching up and then one Thursday morning you called me asking what I was up to. You’ll recall, at the time I was unemployed having been laid off from an ad agency. When your call came I was folding laundry and told you so. “Well, why don’t you drive on out to Denver,” you asked. I considered it for a couple seconds and thought when else would I have the chance to simply drop everything, hop in a car and hit the road for what I expected to be a 12-hour road trip? Less than 30 minutes later I was driving out of St. Louis headed west in a 1985 Honda Accord with no air conditioning and an AM-only radio for company. About 14 hours later I arrived at your doorstep in an overheated car having driven through a tornado in Kansas, blown a tire and replaced it with the donut in the pitch dark on I-70, listened to hours of country-western and the occasional fire-and-brimstone preacher. It was as if the time between 1989 and 1994 never happened. We instantly slipped into our familiar banter and picked up where we left off.
(As an aside, you probably don't remember but that Honda ran hot and in order to keep the engine from completely blowing I had to run the defroster to bleed heat off the engine block. As a result I had to drive with the windows down to keep from roasting alive. No mean feat while driving around the perimeter of a tornado and the associated rainstorms. When I finally emerged from the car wet and sporting a cab driver tan (left arm only) I was hard-of-hearing in my left ear from all the wind noise that resulted from an 80 MPH sprint across Kansas. While a pain in the ass at the time it was a great adventure that bears retelling from time-to-time.)
We haven’t seen each other for several years. We speak occasionally. But we have the Bitter Buffalo where we can joke, observe the absurdities of life, share opinions on music and books, flex our wit and continue a dialogue that began the fall of 1985 in Sykes Hall. I’m not sure why I have written all of this. It certainly isn’t the full and complete record. It certainly isn’t meant to dispute your most recent post. I guess I just wanted to let you know how things looked from my point of view. And I suppose to offer a long-deserved apology for not being a better friend to you when you really needed one. I also want to let you know that while we are both carrying on our lives as husbands and fathers I will always consider you one of the most important people in my life. I’m pretty proud of the way you managed to pull your life together. Finally I’m impressed that you had the guts to peel back the scar tissue and publicly share your perspective on all that crap that went down shortly before and after we graduated. Not that you need me to tell you but you’re doing pretty damned well.
It seems you’ve done a great deal of introspection since 1989 likely the result of trying to figure out what the hell happened all those years ago. I’d also expect that there is a little bit of “And how did I get so lucky to be where I am today?” going on as well.
For better or worse your post has been a catalyst bringing back (or perhaps dredging up) all sorts of memories. Some things I hadn’t thought of in years, many I suppose long repressed. My frame when thinking about those days has always been as it relates my own situation Senior year: my father announcing his plans to divorce my mother a week before sending me back to SLU for one final late-August trip North; the gut-wrenching news of Mom’s terminal cancer the following February; the final insult of her chemotherapy-caused stroke that paralyzed her right side effectively eliminating her ability to speak; and her inevitable death three weeks after graduation. Even without those extreme circumstances it would have been a difficult time – the dissolution of (or perhaps more accurately the eviction from) a familiar, secure and coddling environment and the ushering-in of adulthood and the “real world.” Divorce and cancer aside it would have been unsettling.
I don’t remember much of our friendship and interactions during our final semester probably because there really wasn’t much of either. I remember being excited to see you after your semester in London and looking forward to hanging out again. I remember sitting at a local bar sipping a beer watching a breaking news report about the Lockerbie flight and rushing home to call your house to make sure you were OK and the relief I felt learning from your Mom you were fine. I remember our first “reunion” in the mailroom and your rather disaffected reaction to seeing me again contrasted with my enthusiasm. And I remember you spending lots of time in your room. I don’t blame you for what seemed at the time like the terminus of our friendship. There is more I could have done had I simply taken the opportunity. I could have spent time talking to you and trying to figure out what was wrong. I could have tried to help you. There is so much more I could have done as a friend but I was too wrapped up wrestling my own demons I was incapable of being supportive.
I also remember your brief stint as Phi Kap’s housefather and unceremonious replacement by me. At the time I am sure this felt like a betrayal. I honestly had no plans to step into your shoes when I drove north from Syracuse that weekend. Like you I had nowhere to go – Mom had died three months prior and Dad was engaged to Gwyneth making me as welcome as a houseguest who has overstayed his already unwanted visit. I had packed my Honda and was planning a trip west to see what would happen. Having no plans made the opportunity to live room and board free in that familiar and coddling environment very appealing. So off you went out the side door by the pool room in your packed Blazer to Boston. And there I was in the House Father Suite in Phi Kap. I suspect neither of us had any idea what to do next. So we drifted for about five years with little interaction. The interaction we had was forced at best – pleasantries extended more like muscle memory than an honest dialogue.
Finally, I remember getting your phone call at my apartment in St. Louis the summer of 1994. I remember hearing the hesitation in your voice. Your wondering if I’d be happy to hear from you or give you an earful of vitriol. I tried to act pissed but I couldn’t. I was so happy that you had finally crawled out of your cave. There was a flurry of phone calls between the two of us for a week catching up and then one Thursday morning you called me asking what I was up to. You’ll recall, at the time I was unemployed having been laid off from an ad agency. When your call came I was folding laundry and told you so. “Well, why don’t you drive on out to Denver,” you asked. I considered it for a couple seconds and thought when else would I have the chance to simply drop everything, hop in a car and hit the road for what I expected to be a 12-hour road trip? Less than 30 minutes later I was driving out of St. Louis headed west in a 1985 Honda Accord with no air conditioning and an AM-only radio for company. About 14 hours later I arrived at your doorstep in an overheated car having driven through a tornado in Kansas, blown a tire and replaced it with the donut in the pitch dark on I-70, listened to hours of country-western and the occasional fire-and-brimstone preacher. It was as if the time between 1989 and 1994 never happened. We instantly slipped into our familiar banter and picked up where we left off.
(As an aside, you probably don't remember but that Honda ran hot and in order to keep the engine from completely blowing I had to run the defroster to bleed heat off the engine block. As a result I had to drive with the windows down to keep from roasting alive. No mean feat while driving around the perimeter of a tornado and the associated rainstorms. When I finally emerged from the car wet and sporting a cab driver tan (left arm only) I was hard-of-hearing in my left ear from all the wind noise that resulted from an 80 MPH sprint across Kansas. While a pain in the ass at the time it was a great adventure that bears retelling from time-to-time.)
We haven’t seen each other for several years. We speak occasionally. But we have the Bitter Buffalo where we can joke, observe the absurdities of life, share opinions on music and books, flex our wit and continue a dialogue that began the fall of 1985 in Sykes Hall. I’m not sure why I have written all of this. It certainly isn’t the full and complete record. It certainly isn’t meant to dispute your most recent post. I guess I just wanted to let you know how things looked from my point of view. And I suppose to offer a long-deserved apology for not being a better friend to you when you really needed one. I also want to let you know that while we are both carrying on our lives as husbands and fathers I will always consider you one of the most important people in my life. I’m pretty proud of the way you managed to pull your life together. Finally I’m impressed that you had the guts to peel back the scar tissue and publicly share your perspective on all that crap that went down shortly before and after we graduated. Not that you need me to tell you but you’re doing pretty damned well.
posted by Anonymous, 11:24 AM