A Tale of Two Donnies

My brother had two friends named Chris: good Chris and bad Chris.  Good Chris was a regular kid, played sports, spoke normally, ate large amounts of pizza and played video games with my brother.  Bad Chris wore lederhosen.  You read that right, he was a thirteen year old kid, living in Queens in the twentieth century, and he wore lederhosen.  Frequently.  He also mumbled a lot, looked moist, had a vacant stare, and seemed to stumble around the streets while playing roller hockey with the other kids.  He was a nice enough kid, if you could get him to speak coherently, but he was a grade A goof, ergo Bad Chris.  Fortunately, for me, my brother spent a lot more time with Good Chris as he got older because he was allowed out after dark and didn't bring headgear to sleepovers.

Since my experience with bad Chris, it seems that I have a preternatural sense for goofballs and losers; people I refer to as strays.  I lose patience easily with these societal castoffs and tend to steer clear.  This is not true of the rest of my family who is decidedly nicer and more patient than I.  Members of my family have been known to drag around with whomever they find out in the streets, inviting them to dinner, holiday celebrations and to live in the basement in some cases.  I remember visiting my parents for the first time after their move to Colorado, when a guy I'd never seen before ambled down the stairs (from the bedrooms above) to fix himself a garden burger.  No one seemed to notice this guy but myself and I watched incredulously as he sat down at the dining room table to eat his meal.  I had to finally ask who the hell he was.  While my immediate family is ridiculous in their stray pickup, no one can beat my husband for his uncanny ability to attract and become entangled with the sorriest of human creatures. 

Years ago my husband worked for UPS in the middle of the night.  He drove every night to and fro by himself and put up a notice on the work bulletin board to see if there was anyone interested in carpooling.  This innocuous notice brought a couple into our lives who I came to refer to as the Chubbs.  I don't know what their actual names were, but they were a young couple who approached my husband about the carpool.  They asked if he would mind driving every other week, with him beginning the rotation.  The first week of his driving went without a hitch, they lived close by and he didn't mind the company.  When their turn came around, it was revealed that they didn't have a car.  THEY DIDN'T HAVE A CAR.  What they really wanted was someone to drive them to work and later someone to drive them to work after waking them up by flashing his headlights at their window.  Sometimes he had to bang on the window because they were in too much of a stupor after partying all day long to get up with just a flash and a horn toot.  Most people, and by most people I mean me, would've washed their hands of these meth addicted messes as soon as their end of driving fell through.  Not only did he continue to drive them, but he had them to our house for Christmas Eve one time.  They brought us a really nice bottle of scotch as a gift, which the male Chubb proceeded to drink until it was empty.  The female Chubb also got extremely intoxicated and they had some sort of disagreement during which the female fled and the male had to  be carried home.  My husband stuck by them until he no longer worked for UPS and checked in on them every once in a while afterwards.  We haven't seen them in years, but if you ask my husband, he will refer to them as his friends.

While the Chubbs are part of our history, my husband has more recently acquired a man we call Ron-Don.  On either side of our house, their are men named Donnie.  There is a good Donnie who lives with his girlfriend, tells funny stories and is nice to my kids when they're out playing in the yard.  Bad Donnie reminds my husband of Sally Struthers, if Sally Struthers were strung out on heroin and aimlessly roamed the streets talking to herself.  I think he looks more like an old, white version of the disadvantaged children Ms. Struthers works to raise money for.  My husband mistakenly called this Donnie Ron once, a mistake for which he has been verbally abused going on three years now.  Ron-Don is a drunken, mumbly mess who likes to stop by, holler at my husband and borrow money.  My husband has driven this man to the store, to see his father in the hospital, loaned him money and invited him in for vodka and Pepsi cocktails (this combination alone offends me on many levels).  On one such visit, Ron-Don insulted our paint choices and commented that our fishbowl was dirty.  This from a man who wears his hair in bobby pins.  Ron-Don had moved away for a about a year, but has recently returned to his family home (he is in his fifties).  I think I saw him and my husband out for a joy ride last night.

This weeks tip: Changing your phone number is free if you tell the phone company that you are receiving a lot of solicitor calls or calls from creditors that are not yours.

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.