Ten Spot

"How many times do I have to tell you, empty your pockets when you throw your pants in the wash!" Beth plopped my wallet in front of me, or what was left of it. Every seam had come apart, and the plastic that shielded my license was separated and curling outward along the top edge, and the credit card slots looked like shrapnel wounds that healed without proper stitching.

"I just wore them last night, gimme a break," I countered, "You picked them off the floor this morning, so maybe you should have emptied the pockets." Ooops, that got me the look. I won't bother you with the end of that conversation, but once again I was left to wonder why I always think I can win an argument with my wife.

I removed the contents of my wallet onto the bathroom counter; my license and triple-a card, a debit and two credit cards, a laminated phone extension list from work -- more like an obituary of employees past, and a host of business cards from people I can't remember with bleached, runny blue, ink stained phone numbers on back.

Tucked in the deepest pocket, in a section that I never look in, was exactly half of a ten dollar bill. I laid it on the counter to dry. For a moment I considered hiding it from my wife, whose eyes came to rest upon it, but then I remembered I had told her about it before. She looked at me for an instant, and I waited for a jab for being such a sentimental fool, but she didn't comment. She left the room quietly and pulled the door shut behind her, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I met Jeff in college; he was a teachers assistant in one of my core computer science classes. My first impression of him was that he was laid back and easy going, a good person to get to know. He would lounge in his seat one row up and six desks over, his left arm resting casually on top of the seat back, like a teenager typically does through and open window, driving on a sunny day.

By happy coincidence, I was reunited with him after college, while I was working at TelTech, a subcontractor at IBM East Fishkill that recruited me before I graduated. A close friend of his asked me to present his resume for employment, which I was all too glad to oblige, as my company paid a whopping referral fee of $1500. I only found out that I really knew him after he accepted a position.

TelTech basically harvested new graduates, paid them enough money to eat, pay rent and drive a used car, and managed to retain people for a couple years on average. The employees were mostly from SUNY schools, and were out for a good time. Happy hours and softball, house parties, jam sessions, women and song; real life was yet to come. For now it was all about the party.

Jeff and I were instant friends, and our group was getting larger by the day. Soon we rented a house on Crescent Ave, which was dubbed Crescent Manor. Barry was the owner of the newly opened Blueberry Hill, who introduced us to Sophie and Vanja, two au pairs that had recently come to our country, that basically had the same concept of living as we did. They brought around twenty of their new friends to our first party at Crescent Manor, and it was like that scene in Risky Business when the girls arrive. Every time the door shut the bell rang again, and suddenly, a bunch of computer nerds were entertaining girls from every corner of Europe.

All along, Jeff was the glue that held it all together. He was wonderfully quirky, had a temper that exploded like Yosemite Sam's, his sense of humor had a hard edge, and his laugh was contagious. For a friend, he would do anything; his personality drew us all together. I'll never be as happy as I was in those days. We were free spirits, only living for fun and frivolity, and we didn't have to leave the house for it.

But East Fishkill was a dead end town, and I decided that I had to leave. I had angered my IBM manager, who said some unkind words to my boss, who in turn informed me that advancement at TelTech was premature in my case.

The IBM manager, Larry, approached me in the hallway when I had announced my decision to move west.

"Listen, Scott, I'm real sorry about what happened."

"Don't worry Larry, no harm done."

His eyes were glossed over, his guilt palpable. "I'm not so sure."

It hit me then what he must of said. "Well, I needed an excuse to leave anyway."

He shook my hand, "If you ever need a favor, you can count on me." He made good on that. I was hired at IBM Mountain View without so much as an interview. But remember kids, don't ever show your manager a program that you haven't finished writing yet.

Something snapped in my relationship with Jeff when I told everyone I was leaving. We were never really friends again. He was codependent, and as bright and as great a person he was on his own, he was like a little boy that needed a male father figure to respect and dote on. Some will interpret this as he was gay, but I don't think so. He would eventually move out to California where we would be roommates, but he was bottled rage, and never forgave me for leaving New York. I tried to draw him out, but socially he was stunted. Where once he was willing to try out new people and places, he only wanted to stay home and get stoned. He bought a Harley Davidson Fat Boy and became the lone rider; he polished that bike like Lady Macbeth trying to wash out that imaginary bloodstain. Like so many that lose their hair, he let what was left grow long in back and pulled it into a pony tail. The Jeff that once gave me so much joy had become a crusty old curmudgeon, and it sickened me to look at him anymore. But still I tried, and tried, and tried.

I moved out and got an apartment in San Francisco. We tried to coexist a year or so later, but still the old resentment was there. I got him a job at a gem of a software company that had taught me everything in this business that I hold dear. He started to sabotage my relationships with my friends and my co-workers, until I had no choice but to leave the company and strike out on my own, and for that, I couldn't forgive him. His power to bring people together had a dark and terrible shadow, and it sucked the light from my life.

During this whole drawn out process that spanned ten or so years, everyone that knew me stopped talking to me about the situation that weighed so heavily on my mind. Our common friends didn't want to be in the middle, and eventually I had to remove myself completely, so that today, I am alone, so much worse than before I knew what having such good friends was about.

There is another side to this story, and his is probably quite compelling, and I could even give you the most of it. I was uncomfortable with his unerring attention to the smallest details of my life, and felt squeezed. So I lashed out at him many times. In any fight, there is cause and effect which feeds into the next, such that by the end it's impossible to trace back to the origin. I'm no angel, but I cared for his friendship. But where is that line? When do you say that enough is enough? Some will say never, but there is a line, there has to be, or else you will be abused for the rest of your life.

Jeff walked me to my car when I was packed for my move west. He gave me a state of the art radar detector to keep me out of trouble on the ride.

He pulled out his wallet took out a ten dollar bill, and ripped it in half, then handed me a piece. "The next time we get together, we'll put these back together and have a drink."

I took it without much thought and put it in my wallet. I was getting uncomfortable and it was time to go. He looked at me for a moment and his eyes darkened slightly, then whirled away and started for his car.

"Jeff, wait!"

He didn't stop, and got in his car and drove away with a screech.

Sorry Darin

When I was a boy, it was conventional wisdom to be seen and not heard. Any breach of the rules of conduct could result in a beating from a variety of specialized devices, depending on the imagination of the executor du jour. It wasn't just parents, teachers too had incredible lattitude in this regard. One of my fifth grade teachers had a paddle with bored out holes like swiss cheese, painted red and hung above the chalk board, an unspoken menace. The thought of being struck by that paddle turned my insides to jelly; I would do anything to avoid it's sting. So great was my fear that I sold out my best friend. Mrs. Arnold, a short, plain faced school marm, who for some reason was watching our procession crowding into the boys restroom, caught my friend Darin and I racing each other for last available urinal. Her dreaded voice echoed from every stall, summoning us outside. Dead men walking.

With our backs to the wall, she pronounced her sentence and I lost control of my chords. Lamely I blurted, incoherantly that it was all his fault.

Fear gripped me as I looked to Darin to respond, which I expected would be incredulous at best, at minimum some form of denial. My heart was a runaway train while the world ambled in slow motion. Mrs. Arnold turned to Darin with the "Oh really" look on her face and said, "Is this true, that you are to blame for the whole thing?" Darin looked like a cornered animal, shyly looking down, shrugged his shoulders said lightly, "I guess."

Pause the Tivo for a moment. There are times in life I remember, like the first kiss, the first penetration, the first time I punched someone in the face, the time I walked in on my parents getting busy on the living room floor, my first jog around the bases, the first time I got high, or when I snuck my dad's car out before I had a license. But no one moment in my life is more vivid, no emotion was ever so intense as the shame, the incredible fucking shame of that one moment.

"So", she continued, "then you are willing to accept the punishment for the both of you, and he can go?"

Darin, looked up, his eyes held hers with firm conviction. No malice, no attitude, just the serenity of saint. "Yes."

"Congratulations Darin," she said, shaking his hand, "You are free to go."

"You, on the other hand, are going to get it double."

I didn't get paddled that day, instead my punishment was detention during recess. I don't remember how many days. She made me write a paragraph on why I should be allowed to go. I don't remember what I wrote. It was all bullshit. We both knew that I had been revealed for the traitor I was, that my punishment was far from over.

Weeks later I was back in the hot seat, this time from my Gym teacher. After class, he escorted me to a dark room and locked the door. Wisely I think, he brought a witness. He brandished the paddle -- no holes -- and told me to bend over. I put my hands on my knees and took two whacks without a wimper. I stood up and smiled, much to their amusement. Too little, too late, but I took that one like a man.

So to you Darin, I can only say that I am sorry. In my forty years I have never met another with such integrity. What is love but the giving of it when expecting nothing in return? I'm still not the man you were at ten.

We moved at the end of the school year, which I was destined to do every year until high school, and I never had a real friend again until my senior year. I finally found someone that treated me with the derision I deserved, yet still wanted to throw back a few Millers on Friday nights.

My grandma passed away during my freshman year of college, and for the first time I was back in my old town, where Darin still lived in that small town that was so much larger in my head. I called him, and to my pleasant surprise I didn't have to repeat my name. I had sent him letters from time to time, once even a Christmas present. But after all this time he had to be wondering what the hell was wrong with me that I kept in touch, even if sparingly.

He picked me up and we went to see Revenge of the Jedi. On the way back I didn't have anything more to say.

"What's wrong," he asked, "you seem upset?"

I made some stupid excuse, the kind you make to your wife to avoid a fight. What was I going to say? I'm sorry about something that happened when we were kids? Actually, it sounds like a good thing now, but I just know I would have been disappointed.

What I needed wasn't his to give.