Altar of Loneliness and the Happy Reunion It Brings

I was talking to an old friend today, and naturally, the obligatory gripe "How Much Our Mutual High School Experience Sucked" came and went. I asked him if there was any superfluous gossip floating around about my (early and unconventional) marriage, to which he replied, No. (Yay!) We both admitted we were not nearly popular enough to elicit sound bite-worthy gossip, and that it was better that way.

He recalled, "I have three very distinct memories of you in high school" which set us off on a whirlwind of memories, and left me realizing that high school was not a quarter as bad as I, eight years departed, have constructed it to be. At the very least, I had one lovely friend with whom I forged a solid, emotional bond that I would later forget about, except to think, whenever his name came up "He's a really nice guy."

I'm glad that Facebook (devious and soul-sucking as it is) is here to reconnect old friends. He reminded me of a time when I called him while he was driving (in that ridiculous blue Audi TT of his- desired object of many impromptu street drag racing stunts)-

"I just remember the scenery very clearly. It's amazing cuz... every time I drive by that stretch on the highway that phone conversation comes to mind. Crazy right? It must have made an impression on me or something... the things our minds hold onto."

Friendship & mental associations. Is there a heartfelt correlation between the two? Would it be graded by quality or quantity remembered? I now remember making him promise me that we would both wake up at 5am and go for a morning run to Mission Coffee. We woke up at 7:30am, jogged a quarter mile, and walked the rest of the way to that corner cafe, where I ordered the most sour espresso. It was a cloudy, quiet morning, and no one was out. I could smell the eucalyptus in the cold air, and the oiliness of crushed olives, littering the sidewalk. He asked, "... Don't you want some sugar or milk with that?..." I was embarrassed, so I tipped the rest into the back of my throat, and we left.

One night, we sat on the plastic play structure atop Cancer Park, and talked late into the breezy darkness, so only the stars and sand could hear. We couldn't even really hear one another, but still we sat cross-legged, facing one another, happy to be present, happy to not be lonely.

I went home and my mom stripped me down to my underwear to see if I had hickies. I thought it was funny, so I told him, and another mental association was formed.

We rode in the crammed backseats of one another's cars, and politely listened to the others' music. He stole a basket of flowers that was deposited on my seat in 6th period stats, and read the poem (that I had yet to see) excruciatingly loudly to the rest of the class; who it was signed by (phone number only), he also publicly divulged to 32 students and a teacher. Dialing, and waiting for the ring, he rolled his eyes: "YEAH HI, this is _____ and I want to know who delivered the basket of flowers to my seat in stats. Yes, I do sit in the back row... What do you mean it's not for me?"

All these memories I'd tucked away, half-forgotten and taken for granted until now. It makes me want to revisit the place that smells of sour espresso mingling with wind-cured eucalyptus and palm. I hope the olive trees still litter the ground with sticky, black ink.

Of course I would like to see him again, but post-college life (and all its freedom) has its own dictates. Mostly boring, important ones revolving around the tenets of responsibility and money. I'm glad we have these old, lonely hours that drive everyone to the suddenly-compelling blue sidebar... in some heroic attempt to reconnect with old friends.

Sherman Alexie may scorn our kind, but poo to him. I'm happy to live (and relive) my favorite moments in life, and besides, Indian Killer is a terrible book.

There, I said it.