Within walking distance there was a shopping center, and on the edge of it, a pizza parlor that sold coffee. Most Friday and Saturday nights, I made my way there, bought a single cup of dark black coffee, and nursed it for three hours while I scribbled in wire-bound notebooks with a leaky Bic pen. I never bought a pizza. I had no money. Sometimes I ordered a medium dough—no sauce, no cheese, no toppings. Just a large cracker, with free ketchup. I sat and watched. Too shy to talk to the locals I came to recognize. I hunched in my pea coat, black turtleneck, stolen Levi’s, and Thom McCann sandals—with socks. There was one young man I noticed. Well-dressed. A suit, a tie, and a bowler hat. He came in now and then, scanned the room, and left. He looked like he belonged somewhere else.
One night, while I was scribbling some urgent line, I looked up. The young man was standing in front of me. “May I sit here?” he asked. I nodded, astonished to be visible. He asked if I knew whether there was something going on at the college. It was only two blocks away. I’d been there twice—just passing through. “No, I don’t know of anything. A dance? A concert?” He smiled. “Or perhaps a lecture.” A lecture. Why didn’t I think of that? He looked at my inky hands and spiral notebook and asked if I was a writer. He thought I was a college student. He was one too—or so I thought. But he laughed and said, “Actually, I’m a junior in your class.” It was a big class. 900+ students. We’d never shared a room, a lunch period, or a glance. He never wore the bowler to school. That was the start of my friendship with Michael.
Michael died this morning. Fifty-three years of friendship. In recent decades we drifted apart—different interests, distance, life. For years he ran a custom hot dog stand. I would stop by, check in, get a dog. We talked about getting together. We never did. But I loved him still.
I remember the night he showed up at my house in slacks and dress shoes. I introduced him to my athletic neighbor, and they ended up talking sports. Michael, not exactly built like a sprinter, suggested he was quick in the 50-yard dash. My jock friend laughed. Michael took off his jacket, toed the line in the middle of the street, dress shoes and all. I gave the signal. Three paces in, Michael was a full body length ahead. By the end, he was yards ahead. I still hear the sound of leather soles on asphalt. Sometimes he’d borrow his sister’s car and we’d drive the neighborhood. One night, we stopped at a church on a hillside. He had a key. He walked me into the sanctuary without a word.
Midnight. Quiet. He stepped to the altar, opened a Bible at random, and began to read in a deep, sonorous voice. I sat alone in a pew, listening. I was being churched.
Later, in college, his girlfriend was still in high school. She had a car—and her father paid for the gas. Michael drove her to school, picked me up for lunch, and then we’d drive an hour to the Nut Tree, where the waitresses knew our order. I don’t know what her father thought about the mileage. We never asked.
We both married. We both divorced. We both had sons. I named mine after him. Still, we drifted. I introduced my oldest friend to Michael. They got along. Eventually, my friend rented an apartment behind Michael’s mother’s house. Then, in time, he married Michael’s sister. A fantastic twist. And still—Michael and I drifted. But none of it—not the years, the quiet, the distance— lessened my love or my memory.
He was my friend. He is my friend. I loved him then. I love him now. I carry the best of us, always. Michael— you will always be my friend.
