Friends

When I was growing up, I had a friend, someone I thought would always be around. You know what I mean, we all had a friend like that. Inseparable, best buddies and blood brothers, you could complete his sentences and he always knew what you were thinking. The kind of friend your mother hated because he was a "bad influence" on you . . .

Christopher Phillips, where are you?

I remember the last time I saw Chris, back in 1988. He and his then girlfriend came to spend a few days with me back when I was still living in Chicago. It had been a while since we'd seen each other, but that didn't matter. We picked right up again as if no time had passed at all, as if we'd last met only the day before. And I regretted that we couldn't spend more time together, because I had to work, and a twelve-hour day and a commute just didn't leave a whole lot left over.

Christophe, mon ami, qu'est-ce que tu fait?

It seemed like I'd known Chris my entire life. Sleep-overs at his house or at mine, staying up late to watch Creature Features, gleefully finding new ways to turn our paents' hair grey.

I remember going to the movies every Friday night with Chris, and my father bringing him along on our post-Christmas skiing trips. Of him sharing my exile to the Inidana State Dunes during that memorable summer - and, after a particularly bad thunderstorm where a bolt of lightning split a tree next to the house, throwing a pillow on the floor and announcing "We're dead! You killed us!"

I remember one of the times my mother was out of the country and my father was off on one of his retreats with his patients, when I grabbed the pizza and Chris grabbed the beer and we retreated behind a locked door where the babysitter couldn't reach us. Or going out for "flingies," which entailed buying hot fudge sundaes at Baskin-Robbins, and then flinging the hot fudge at passing cars. Those long, plastic spoons made great catapults.

Chris was the first person I ever got drunk with, after that terrible day. And yes, my old friend, I still can't drink Scotch. He was one of the first people to get to my house that day and, when I would check out, was one of only two people who could pull me back.

I never aplogized to him for the traffic. But I think he already knew.

I remember sitting up into the early hours of the morning, sharing beer and listening to music, discussing history, politics, philosophy and the finer points of females. Of talking about the future, and reverently remembering the past and those who were no longer with us. Of reaffirming a friendship that was immutable, as solid as the ground beneath our feet.

"You know I'd carry your ass forty miles through enemy lines, you bastard." Yeah, Chris, I know; and I'd still do the same for you.

Where are you, Christopher Phillips?