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Best Friends

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I had a best friend.  Hell, I've had a few who claimed the title for themselves without consulting me, and there have been those who became my "best friend" because other parties playfully bestowed such an honor because we might have been seen hanging out together in public a few times, a couple good-looking boxers or salsa dancers or whatever.  I tried to live up to the title of best friend, but since it was a someone else's invention, it never held. 


Over the years, I've always had a nearly dismal, apathetic view of male friendships.  Buddies at the gym, someone I'm friends with at work, a crowd I fell into; that's all it's been. It's not hard for me to find friends, and because of that, they've been disposable.   I haven't been able to invent some reason to hang out with other men all the time or keep them as longtime companions, and I've envied those who have their lifelong friends.    


But I did have a real best friend once.  I met him in the 6th grade.  We were inseparable, we did everything together.  I haven't heard from him in a long time.  More than 20 years.  The last time I saw him, I was humiliated by a mutual friend and I had to leave the house we were all gathered at.  It's not an interesting story, but it happened.  John and I didn't have a falling out, that day's humiliation was unrelated; it just happened to be the last time I saw him.   What caused the two of us to drift away was distance, time and circumstances; those things created strangers out of the two young men who grew up together.  He went his way and I went mine, because that's what men do.  


In this life of mine, I've had times where I was really feeling badly.  I've had some low moments.  Then there's been more those moments which grew into something much more than just an awful feeling, times where I measured the value of being here, and the calculation came to a very dark figure.


So I cannot honestly say that if there ever was a time for my best to reappear, it would be now, because I've had worse times.   Even this private, awful feeling which has cast its spell on me has slowly matured into something which can almost be described as innocuous (not really, not even close.). I'm getting better.


It doesn't matter.  My best friend reached out to me the night before last.  Called me out of the blue.  We spoke for almost 2 hours.   Then he called me last night; we spoke for almost 4 hours.


He's doing great!  He's successful.  He's married, been with the same girl for almost 20 years.  He has a son.  He has a home.  He seems happy. I'm so glad things have worked out for him, because he really had it tough growing up.   


He's still my best friend.  After all these years, we're both still best friends.  I'm glad I'm alive.  I have a best friend.  His name is John, which is the very same name I gave to the figure who gets into so much trouble in the novel which grew to be much too large for me to ever finish.  It was never a coincidence.  

Edited by Megasoup
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