and Words
[Instrumental]
More than once I’ve been accused of remembering details with stunning, even creepy accuracy. My ability to recall details from conversations years before causes friends and family some distress. Save for that time in high school where I memorized pi to over 130 digits, I don’t try to remember details; I just do. I won’t tell you that I remember details with malicious intent, at least not most of the time.
On an otherwise ordinary visit to Costco, I come upon the condiment aisle. I walk by the cartoonishly large portions of whatever they’ve packaged; I observe them in morbid fascination. Upon finding a gallon-sized container of plain yellow mustard, I stop. At that moment, a particular memory surfaces. My good friend detests yellow mustard. He won’t consume it as a condiment and only occasionally tolerates it in recipes.
Of course, I do what is clearly a calling and something that will become a Frank trademark. I buy that gallon of yellow mustard and offer it to him as a token of friendship.
It’s not the only time I’ve done this. Along the way, I’ve included an absurdly large bag of raisins, handfuls of fresh green beans, vacuumed-sealed parmesan cheese, and a vacuumed-sealed avocado. Each of the vacuumed-sealed items included a note, sealed in the bag, denoting the item as a token of friendship. It makes sense in a twisted way. If I didn’t care about you, I wouldn’t remember that which you detest.
Incidentally, we came to discover that avocados eventually emit gas as they ripen (or spoil) as the previously snugly sealed avocado started to balloon. None of us dared to cut that bag open before we threw it away. Of course, now my twisted mind wonders what’d happen if we were to seal it in acrylic.
In the case of the gallon jug of yellow mustard, I handed it to my friend when we met for dinner. It eventually lands in his office. Over the months, as people stop by to consult with him, they look quizzically at the jug of mustard. If time permits, he tells the story of an unconventional friend, who goes out of his way to track down and gifts items that people detest. Yes, that would be me. Once the mustard started to separate in the jug, it lands in the waste basket.
Our friendship was extraordinary. For years, we went to dinner on every Sunday. I’d simply call around that time and simply asked, “dinner?” and from there we’d discuss.
Naturally, we had favorite restaurants. Among those was a Thai place that has since closed. On a Sunday evening, we chatted in a booth. We could hear fragments of conversation from surrounding tables. Seated behind our booth was a couple and what seemed like her parents. As the waitress took their order, the man gave his selection at the maximum spice level (five star). We quietly glared at each other, and both mouthed, “Five?!” Did he legitimately want it that spicy or was this bravado? We waited until they received their orders to satisfy our curiosity, but it didn’t take long. That man was in immediate pain and reached for the water within seconds. This naturally amused us.
On one particular evening my cat escaped from my condo. I had injured my leg that day while inline skating, so I was unable to retrieve him. I called my friend on the phone; he quietly drove from his apartment blocks away. He rescues my cat from the staircase and helps me put him back in my condo. As I hobble around, he glances at my ankle and asserts that it is not a simple strained or twisted ankle. He suggests that I should go to the hospital, and he would drive me. That evening ended in a cast and crutches after the diagnosis of a fractured fibula.
Shortly after my 27th birthday, we stood in his carport as we took a break from gaming. I mentioned that having turned 27, means that I have now lived twice as long without my father than I had with him. Meanwhile, I looked into the distance on that cool night, thinking about the significance of that milestone. Life since his death has been like seeing ghostly images of where he might’ve been, never really knowing how he might’ve felt about me. My friend listened quietly, only asking the occasional question. That’s precisely what I needed.
We spend much of our time, listening to music and discussing anything and everything. For many years, I aspired to play the guitar. I never actually did it; I simply purchased said instruments on a whim. I had a Washburn acoustic-electric guitar that sat in a corner of my living room. On occasion, he would pick it up and play it. Naturally, I both praised and cursed him when he did that. I only rationalized that I myself could pick it up and learn to play. That guitar still sits in a corner, quietly mocking me… sometimes I can almost hear it chuckle.
On one particular evening, as we discussed different artists and albums, this particular album, ‘Surfing with the Alien’ comes up for discussion as we play it. He asks which is my favorite track from the album, my response is this track, ‘Always with Me, Always with You’. He scowls.
While I won’t apologize for my choice, he elaborates. This song is too obvious of a choice, much like talking about ice cream flavors and picking vanilla or chocolate. For me, the song reminds me of a soulful memory. At times it sounds celebratory; at times it sounds melancholy. I didn’t amend my selection; he continues to scowl.
This song fondly reminds me of that conversation, and in a surreally appropriate way, much like that jug of yellow mustard, reminds me of our enduring friendship. I can almost see him scowling, though this time it amuses me.
Moments like this build the tapestry of our friendship. They range from the funny and lighthearted to the emotional and retrospective. He has always called me on my bullshit but does it in a way that I could hear it. It’s a tower of trust that we built one brick at a time.
It saddened me when he moved to be closer to his family on the East Coast. We still see each other on occasion, and when we speak to each other it’s as if we had only spoken days before. We’ll naturally catch up on life, current events, or technology. I must admit that I miss his company.
While I’m quick to poke fun at his dislike of mustard, he aspires to keep a low online profile. Therefore, I respect that by omitting his name.