Of Urchins and Friends

My mother used the term 'street urchin' to describe and define a broad category of children running around the streets of New York City in the seventies and eighties. Generally, she used the term to talk about kids whose parents didn't know where they were or what they were doing at any given time of day, although you could also be called a street urchin if your fingernails weren't trimmed or had dirt underneath them; like I said, broad term. My mother didn't usually want me spending a lot of time with street urchins, and usually she was right - they were tougher kids who seemed to derive joy from breaking toys or fist fighting. Kids who weren't going to be nice enough to me, or who would use me were not the kind of friends my mother preferred I had. Like most other things, my mother had clear cut opinions on whom I should spend my time with.

As I got older, I got better at choosing my friends, but like most kids, I wasn't fantastic at it. My mother's opinions remained, but she was less vocal as I think she realized she had less control over who I spent my time with & truthfully you can't stop a kid from making mistakes ALL the time. In about the fifth grade, I realized that girls were mean. Spiteful, gossipy, superficial, bitches. This was the time of my life where it wasn't uncommon for me to be best friends with someone one week and arch enemies with them the following. After an entire school year of this, my mother sat me down and explained that the friends I had then weren't necessarily the friends I would have later in life. I was going to grow up and out of the friendships, and that a girl only needed one good friend as opposed to say five or six . It was her way of telling me not to sweat it, things would all work out for me and I shouldn't spend my time bemoaning such trivialities. I listened respectfully and then rolled my eyes when she left the room; because really what the hell did she know?

The thing is she was right. I had already met my one true friend, but didn't know it yet. Thirty years later, she sits across the room from me having driven across the country to be my son's godmother. The past two years have been rough on her, but she's well now and we're together; not just friends, but family. Below is something I wrote when she first got sick:

She is one of my oldest memories. My grandmother's house, three doors down. The little girl whom I call for at her window. I stand on the concrete steps talking to her at her window. Our conversation is silliness, not memorable, but it is. To me.

" Want to come out and play? My grandmother lives just there. We played the other time I was here" I nod my head down the street, where my cousin Scott sits in front my grandmother's house playing Pink Floyd on his boom box. Scott is older, does bad things and doesn't have any interest in the likes of me. We don't need no education.

"I'll ask my mother, I can probably sit on the stoop." she says. I don't know her name. We go to the same dancing school, but I don't know this then, not until later when we compare.

I remember this clearly even though I was only possibly five when I visited my grandmother on 67th street, before her second marriage and the move two blocks away where she remains until she dies.

We don't meet again until I am twelve. I am in love (really? no) with the boy whose father owns the old lady hair salon on Myrtle Avenue. My grandmother goes there for her perms. Strange connections to my grandmother. Now I live in the neighborhood and am new here and flat chested. I like to play softball with the boys in the schoolyard. I like the tall, skinny german boy whom she likes too. He sees me first, but it is no matter, because she is beautiful. Not like a twelve year old, not like me. I'll be thirteen at the end of the year, but I will not have her breasts, or her smile. She is now my nemesis, but only for a little while.

I decide to hate her, just as she has decided that she will conquer me in this love game with the german boy. He cannot help it. I am no doubt fun to make out with, and play ball with, but with her, the possibilities are endless. I can tell. My friends side with me. They tell me things about her. She goes to Catholic school, she goes to parties where they play spin the bottle. She dances; in competitions. I do none of these. I am new.

I am ashamed that I will lose my first boyfriend, so I will fight her. I will ride my bicycle right up to her outside the schoolyard fence where she has taken to walking past frequently. I call her out. She does not respond, because this is not her way. It is my way for a long time, but never her way. I claim victory in this small challenge, because it is all I have. She really will win. Not just the boyfriend, but my friendship as well. I get over it, and we are friends she and I.

The boyfriend lasts for her far longer than he did for me. He will cheat on her, with me and others until he is nothing to her anymore. It takes us until junior year in highschool to get to this point. Another girl, another friend we know. His name called out at her sweet sixteen candle cermeony at Pellegrini's. We go to different highschools, she and I, but the cheating girl is in my class. My highschool friends side with her when the boy cheats with the other girl. There are big discussions, and endless gossip. This silly german boy did not come between us, nothing much ever does. My entire teenage and adult life is based on the comfort of our friendship.

We meet other boys. Involve ourselves in other dramas. Broken hearts, sentimental claptrap, Lisa Lisa songs sung walking arm in arm after too many Bartles and James. I will return her to her parents house dead drunk when she is with the boy that is forbidden. She will say I have spent the night at her house, even if I haven't. Take turns holding one anothers hair when vomitting. We will see each other off on prom night, whisper about what we've done. We will have sleepovers, share clothing, secrets, dreams. We are very good at this friendship.

We have other friends, some that we share, some that we don't. It does not matter. We are a unit, a fact. I will tell her everything, she me. We fight some, but it is forgiven within a short time. She is more forgiving than me, easier than me to be around I think. We laugh. We learn to drive in her fathers station wagon. It is blue and older than anyone we know. It is okay, because the learning takes place in Pennslyvania where no one can see us. Her father is very patient, but cannot help but remove himself fromt the vehicle to show us where the stop sign really is. We will go to each others functions, family parties, see each other off to other countries. Friends indeed.

In college, she will go to my math class for me. We were going to go away, be lawyers together. Schools down south. Baron's books full of school names, and highlighters to choose just the right place for us. It does not occur to us to go west, or north. We do go not away, especially not down south where we do not belong. College does not suit her, but she will sit in my math class instead of her classes and take the tests for me. I find it odd, but am glad someone is willing to participate in the requirements. We are often late when she drives, she has sneezing fits and migraine headaches. This irritates the rest of us, but it doesn't really matter. We will miss her when she doesn't come back next semester.

When my boyfriend dies, she is the only one. We are grown up, but no so much. She more than me because she has been working, I have been screwing around at school. She has a boyfriend too. One I don't particularly care for, which is often the case. I never think they are good enough for her, and mostly they aren't. Mostly I miss her and get jealous. Her boyfriend does not die, but she takes care of me. Brings me movies, buys me Gossamer. Does not make me dwell on the awful things people are saying and doing around me. She lets me be myself, tells me the truths I need to know and lets me know I am good enough. When my father gets sick, she has me over to dinner at her house a lot. Her mother makes divine things like macaroni and cheese and tarts. At my house there is broiled chicken and fish. I eat elsewhere often.

We decide to go to California. Finally going west occurs to us. This is an almost obscene idea to our families. New Yorkers are so firmly planted, but we reckon that we have our own tv's and bedspreads, so we can spread our wings and fly the nest. We will bring the right sandals, my light up phone, we are ready. I go first because I need to leave. She comes a month later. We are roommates. We are new together.

Life takes us apart. Always a man. When I leave and wind up subsequently heartbroken, she mends me with a visit. Discussions, tears, drinking. All of the things one needs to get over the latest, the last. When my father dies, she holds me in her arms. We will visit less and less as we get caught up in our things. We will marry and not attend each others weddings. I am cruel, unnecessarily so as I can be when I think I'm right. We are still friends, but distant ones. E-mail friends, Christmas card friends. Friends it takes a long time to catch up with, so we leave the big parts out.

Over the past few years, we have become close again. No animosity, she has forgiven me before I even apologize for cruelties and things unsaid. She is so much better than I. My one true friend. We take the time now to catch up. "Did I tell you?..." She is reference point for me, "remember so and so...?" I am confident in us, our ability to weather any storm.

Now she is sick. Cancer. I cannot wrap my brain around this. We are young, vital. She is sick and in pain. She is suffering and I feel compelled to hold her hand. Lay on a couch with her. Laugh and cry. Be the friend she lets me think I can be. She is one of my oldest memories.