Clear

We had some good times together, he and I. It was the nineties, when the world was young(er). I had come out of the closet only a couple of years previously, and had started going to the local gay bar/dance club about a-year-and-a-half after that. I was gradually becoming more comfortable in my own skin. Dad, and my beloved maternal grandmother, Gummy, were yet to become sick and die from cancer. I was going to the local community college. Life was, if not great, good.

I forget how we met -- very likely at C-Street. He was around my age (late teens/early twenties), tall, thin, dark-haired, a sweet soul with a sometimes quick temper, though thankfully it was never directed at me. He had an impish smile, one that could melt my heart, even on the coldest of days. He did this thing where he would mess with my face, mess with my hair. I never fully understood it, nevertheless it was one of those things I let him do because it was the kind of beautiful attention that I so rarely received. I can still remember him doing it sometimes, standing there, often with a drink in one hand, that impish smile across his face as his arm became outstretched.

Our conversations weren't terribly far-ranging. We weren't there to stretch each others' imaginations, or solve the problems of the world. And we both did have problems. I was adrift at work and at college, unsure of what I wanted to be in the world. He had issues at home, and would sometimes drink too much and unleash that temper of his. It got him banned from the bar on more than one occasion. Our time together, though not what one would term a relationship, was fairly free of tumult. We satisfied each other's needs on a certain level.

Then there were the movie-going occasions. Movies have been a fixture of my life for as long as I can remember, and the mid-nineties were no exception. Two of the films we saw together were Twister, and Jumanji, fixing at least part of our crossed-paths firmly in 1995. There were the evenings at C-Street, where we would talk, but mainly do our own thing. We weren't an item. We weren't there as a couple. Then, of course, there were the nights spent together where we made love. That term can produce everything from images of poetry by Yeats or Neruda, to the covers of romance novels, and everything in between. I assure you it was nothing as dreamy as all that -- just two people in need of close company and a sort of intimacy.

I don't remember the exact wording of the conversation, but our time together came to a rather abrupt end one morning after he'd spent the night when, if memory serves, he proffered the notion of possibly becoming a couple. In truth, I had never seen our (unspoken) arrangement as anything more than that of convenience. Yes, he was cute. Yes, he was sweet. Yes, I loved his smile. But, no, I did not want to date him, if that makes any sense? And, I don't really know how serious he was about the idea. He'd barely mentioned it before I unleashed a stream of utterances about how we needed to stop seeing each other. I'll never forget the look of bewilderment (and injured feelings?) on his face as he gathered his things and left my small abode.

The older we get, the more life we accumulate. Some of that life comes with nice memories, much of it is filled with the common plainness of our everyday existence, while some of our recollections (varying in frequency from person-to-person) may be filled with remorse. As my life accumulates its memories and occurrences, the way I left things with him over two decades ago has gnawed at my conscience. Should I make amends? Would he remember me? Would he care? It is true that the things which torture us in our own head may be but the calmness of  tranquil pond to others.

So, a few months ago, I did what most folks in this day and age do -- I looked-up this old friend on social media. And I found him, living in a different state, looking older, but still very much the same. I hesitated for several days before finally sending him a message via the social media app. It was a nonchalant communication, simply a, 'Hi, how are you? It's been a while,' type of thing. He responded in fairly short order, where we did some minor catching-up on life, and then that was that.

I didn't want to leave things that way, though. I wanted to apologize, if not for his sake than for my own. So, after a couple of weeks, I messaged him again. This time, things didn't go so well. His tone was abrupt. Hostile. He said that people were trying to kill him, and that I had to be behind it. 'Nobody messages someone out of the blue after twenty years, Matt!' he said. Not at the same time that people were trying to kill him. It wasn't a coincidence, it was purposeful. I was, as far as he was concerned, masterminding some plot to end his life. I was startled, dear reader, and recoiled. Of course I denied the accusation, and our online conversation was over.

At this point I began to review the old friend's social media page a little more in-depth, and noticed quite a few general postings from him regarding the worry that various people were trying to murder him. He would also post pictures of, say, a street, and talk about a person in the photograph on said street, only to have people comment that they couldn't see anyone there (neither could I). It was with a sinking heart that I began to realize that all was not well with the person I once knew.

Earlier I remarked that life had been good during the time I knew this once-upon-a-time friend. That was a judgment made in hindsight. Then, much like now, I felt uncertain. Lacking knowledge of what the future holds always makes it so. Looking back, it was partly the whatever-it-was-I-had-with-him that helped make it a good life. I should have been more appreciative of it -- of him -- at the time. I still feel correct in not having wanted a relationship, but now it feels too late to make amends with how we left things. The person I once knew is gone. I don't know him anymore.