Flash Forward

There's an irony involving the previous post regarding my best friend.

It has been said that a friend is a single soul dwelling in two bodies. That a man's friend will know him better than his family, his co-workers, and even his wife.

Two nights ago.

Two nights ago I decided not to go home from work directly. I went to Barnes and Noble, a bookselling store and read graphic novels (aka big comic books) for a while before wandering next door to the adjoining Best Buy (electronocs) store. There wasn't anything really good in either place, and I left feeling rather morose about the entire affair.

So I hop in my car and start driving home, and along the way I begin to think, as I always always do. This night in particular my Dad popped into my mind unbidden, and of the things I remembered of him, I remembered that he had taught me a certain means of behaviour which to be honest simply isn't complied to anymore. Fight fair, like men, with your bare hands. You don't need a weapon, and if you do, you shouldn't be in the fight. When the fight is over, it's over. No running to your friends, their friends, anyone. When someone hits the dirt, it's done. There is an obligatory beer to be bought, and then it simply over. Walk away. If you're going to do something wrong, don't get caught. but if you do get caught, own up to it and take it like a man.

There's some inconsistency there, but there's also a certain level of honor. This is what I was thinking about as I drove home, listening to the radio.

As I reached my side of town, I felt drawn to the K-Mart, a place of relative historical significance, to me anyway. My mother worked there for nearly 20 years, and so did I as one of my first jobs. I remember every saturday going with my dad to see her at work at her lunchtime, and standing out front as my dad talked to someone or another he knew from the "old days," as he had went to high school about a block away.

I guess that's one of my roots.

So there I was, drawn to this place with so many bittersweet memories of things long gone. I parked my car and got out, walking inside in nearly a fugue state. I didn't know why I was here, but I knew I needed to be. 50% of you are calling bullshit on this part of the tale, and you need to pull your heads out of your asses and start listening to your instincts.

So there I was wandering the aisles, not thinking, not feeling, just sort of moving to where I guess I needed to be.

And as I got there, he walked around the corner.

No, not my dad, but something close, and maybe a little better. My "Uncle" Steve.

"Uncle" Steve isn't really my uncle, it's a special honorary term reserved for those people that are not related by blood, but rather through the kinhood of friendship. He had grown up with my dad, and known him for most of his life. He recognized me instantly, and his eyes lit up as I approached him to shake his hand.

It was nice to be nice to be seen for once.

So we talked for a while, I asked him about his son while he asked me about my dad, and we had similar answers. It was an...uncomfortable comfortableness we found there, being such parts of the other family's lives for so long. He grinned proudly at me as I told him tales of road trips and adventures I had taken, and I listened to his tales of raising snakes and other things, and was visibly happiest when his daughter showed up.

She didn't remember me, but that's cool. She was 4 the last time I saw her. I guess she's in her 20's now.

I didn't want to interrupt his time with his daughter, so I excused myself, shaking his hand once more before I left.

And that's when it happened.

He didn't let go. It wasn't a firm grip, or frightening, he just held on a second longer, because he had to tell me something.

"Dave," he said. "Your dad isn't the easiest person in the world to get along with. It isn't your fault."

Now, I've heard this tale from people before, and not to take anything away from those people or what they tried to tell me, but there wasn't exactly a "weight" to it. They weren't there. They didn't know. They were saying what was proper to be said, but how could they know?

But this man, this man was my father's lifelong best friend. He Knew. I could trust him.

The rest of the ride home I only remember in patches. I was stunned by what had happened, least of all by the bizarre happenstance that set the stage for it.

(I'll take "Shit that can only happen to Dave" for $200, Alex)

So there we have it. In characteristic surreal style, I deal with a ghost from the past, and an echo of pain that has now gone away. My father may not have been redeemed by his best friend, but I think that in a small way, I was.

One less chain around my heart.


One less thorn in the Lion's paw...