It was still dark. In the eastern sky, a hint of gray. It was quiet. My favorite time of day. I was leaning on the handrail at the top of the steps. Just smoking in peace. My best friend Chris, who lived next door, came outside for his morning cigarette, a glass of black coffee in hand. He said good morning, as he did on all mornings. Asked if I’d had coffee yet. I had not. But I’m okay without the Colombian brew until that first burst of nicotine is coursing through my head.
Strangely, he went inside, slamming the door. He never did that and loud noises, especially unexpected ones, make my PTSD activate at full speed. Shaking, I was in another place when suddenly he was beside me. By then coffee laced with rum couldn’t have calmed me down. He said, “I’ve got something for you,” and it was a multi-tool, one that opens up into a pair of pliers and which has other useless shit like a screwdriver and a half-inch knife.
He said he’d see me later because we always end up coming out for a smoke at the same time at least a few times in a day.
But this was not any day.
This was going to be a very bad day.
At about 08:30 a van parked out front. A crew of women began carrying boxes, bags and big Coleman coolers into his house, where he lived with his widowed mother. I remembered Chris had said they had extra junk that needed to be hauled away. I thought that’s what must be going on. Sure, that was it.
But then, an hour later, the moving truck came. The women had packed a lot of things and they were being loaded onto it, and I didn’t see Chris so I texted him: Are you moving??
Then I saw them carrying even his canes to the truck. I texted: They’re taking your canes!
No response. And it shocked me. An hour later I texted: Thanks for telling me.
30 minutes passed. No response.
They were moving out. Best buddies for 7 years and he hadn’t told me anything. And he still wasn’t. And he was smoking out back, I could tell. I blocked his number.
Because, fuck him. That’s a chickenshit thing to do. To a friend and neighbors who care about you.
He didn’t answer text messages. Didn’t call. Did not ring the door bell.
A couple of times later, after dark, I knew he was sitting out in his chair smoking. I remained hidden by my porch; I had nothing to say. I had even been so sick that I’d taken the multi-tool to one of the movers and lied, “I saw the guy drop this. I guess it goes on the truck somewhere.”
The “gift” felt fake and very hollow to me. I wanted nothing to do with it.
What was that, anyway? A going away present? I don’t need it. I didn’t mind their moving, either, especially if it’s for the best. But being sandbagged, being kicked in the gut by not telling me, so I didn’t know until the moving van arrived? That I do mind.
Once more, a lesson I should have retained from decades ago: get close to someone, and they’ll hurt you.
I forgive it, and I’ll miss our many deep conversations and his stupid jokes. But he can never hurt me again. He’s not a friend now.
In my posts about burning bridges, I described shamefully doing this to others, but I was never quite this slimy about it except with siblings because they had triggered me. Even that, however, I truly regret.
This is different. A betrayal or a knife to the back. A cowardly cut that I understand and forgive but which will prevent me from even greeting him in passing, should such an incident happen.
I’m just too broken for this. I’ve lost too much and too many. And I don’t want to lose any more. How much can one man take?
I hope not too much more.
I’ve had enough. Enough chickenshit, betrayal and the refusal of men to behave like men, with just a little bit of honor.
Word around the hood has it that his mother was afraid people would start rumors about them.
Well, fail, because nobody’s interested in creating stories. They’re too mystified by the simple truth. It was a strange, sickening and disturbing end to 7 years of trust and sincere friendship.
It’s a shitty world. Because of the way we’ve treated it–and each other.
I don’t see that changing.
How terribly sad life truly is.
Memoirs of an American Asshole 