I lost my best friend, twice. The first time I lost him was when he died. The second time started after the funeral and hasn’t stopped since.
He was a popular guy, but you wouldn’t know it to look at him. He could barely speak. And when he did, you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He was what you would call an impresario, a man of ideas, more artist than entrepreneur. Yet he was compelled by the mundane, which terrified him, because he was always broke.
I never took a penny from him. And to be fair, he never took one from me. We had a barter agreement. That’s what I call it, anyway. I’m not sure what he still owes, but I figure that we must be even. What he gave just cost more.
After he died, he finally became successful. When he was alive, he was incapable of quoting a price. He would run his finger around his collar, scratch the back of his neck, readjust his hat, clear his throat, light a cigarette. And by the time he got around to saying the number, it had a question mark - like he was asking you instead of telling you. Nobody in their right mind wanted to write him a check. But once he was dead, he had other people quoting prices. And they weren’t as bashful.
I never knew when my bell would ring, but it was usually a major holiday, which for me is always quiet. He would walk in and sit down like he was me – tired, wanting a little peace and quiet, maybe something to eat. Both of my wives loved him. So did my mother. My kids. Other times I would be in my underwear and the phone would ring. He was hungry. He needed to talk. There was a problem, usually with a girl. The idea that I wouldn’t put on my pants and turn on the grill never occurred to him. Me neither.
When he finally fell in love, we were all so happy. The girlfriend started to show up by his side on the odd evenings and major holidays, and she was one of the family. You rarely see people in love like that. And then she died. He was heartbroken, and began to show up at my house a lot more. And then he got sick, made himself sick, and he died too. The girlfriend got the mourners rolling, so he went out on a wave.
When he died they set on him like Greeks. He was suddenly the most popular guy in the world – think Van Gogh but with no paint. Or Jesus Christ – all legacy, few facts. The way they cried at the funeral made me wonder who the fuck all these people were. Where were they when he couldn’t get laid?
Now, everybody acts like his best friend. They share stories. One girl, who never slept with him despite what she’d like you to think, waved me away and said not to tell her a single thing about him, because she knew. What she didn’t know was that I distinctly remembered him telling me: I hate that fucking girl. She makes me sick and I want her out of my sight. Since he was dead, I guess he got his wish. So I didn’t say anything.
I feel robbed, and what’s worse, it’s hard to let go. I can’t even confess to missing him without the first person hearing it saying: me too. You too? You didn’t even know the fucking guy, and that goes for most people.
