Dear Old Friend

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• September 28, 2015

I remember where we left off.  It was the end of the semester.  The year was 2008.  We said goodbye, and acted as though we’d stay in touch, though we both knew we wouldn’t, even if we wanted to.  After a year of college, I made exactly zero friends.  You were probably the closest I came to having a new friend.  But I’d never see you again.  You were going back to Israel.  You were going back to join the army.  You were going back to your home country, because you felt like you were needed.  You had a purpose.

Perhaps it’s better if I start from when we met.  It was an advanced creative writing class.  Our professor, she looked like that bird from Looney Tunes, Miss Prissy.  At the start of every class, the students had a write a word on the board.  Then, we’d free write, using as many of the words as possible.  After ten minutes or so, students would volunteer to read what they wrote, and sometimes the professor would call on the quieter students who failed to volunteer.  You usually raised your hand.  I usually didn’t.  Your writing was funny, and the class enjoyed your work, as did I.  I hated sharing mine.  Because you couldn’t write a story in ten minutes.  You could only write your thoughts.  I didn’t like my thoughts.

I didn’t talk to you because I didn’t talk to anyone.  I did what was asked, then went to eat lunch, alone, in my car.  The honors classes at Suffolk Community College were so much better than the regular classes.  Because the students cared.  They cared about the class, and they cared about their future.  You were one of the older kids in the class, though not the oldest.  There was a woman in her fifties, and she was quite beautiful, I recall.  She never got an education, and came to Suffolk for fun.  For fun.  I didn’t understand education as a means for fun back then.  I was so young.  The older lady was also outgoing.  She couldn’t develop characters for shit, but she wrote in such a poetic way, and smiled while she read, you couldn’t help but be entranced when she shared her story.  The wrinkles around her face told a tale of someone who didn’t have an easy life, but still, her eyes smiled.  Whatever wrong the world did to her, she forgave.  And she moved on.

From time to time, I’d see you around campus, smoking a cigarette, usually with some goth girls.  It wasn’t hot yet, but you wore shorts, and cut the sleeves off your t-shirts.  I guessed this was because you were a little overweight.  One of those people who sweat a lot.  Though I’m not sure one has to do with the other.  I still wore a hoodie, because I was always cold.  You were friendly, and I was awkward.  You said , “hello,” and smiled.  I waved, politely, and walked away.

The semester was already half way over.  It’s funny how that happens.  At the start of every semester, I’d look at the syllabus with panic.  I didn’t think there was any way I could do all the work, along with all the work of the other classes, and my job(s).  But, as life goes on, you learn how to deal with such things.  I don’t think it ever daunted you.  I don’t think you ever had a panic attack in your life.  I could be wrong.  I hope I’m not.

We were assigned a group project, five people total, three others, plus you and me.  Much to my surprise, the group looked to me as their captain.  You looked to me to start up the story.  To generate characters, and a plot.  It hadn’t occurred to me I was the smart one.  Even more so, it hadn’t occurred to me I was noticed at all.  I didn’t want to be the group leader.  Somehow, every one voted it should be me.  So I took the role.  I was the youngest, and definitely the smallest.  Then, I started bossing people around.  I dictated how our story would go, and assigned roles.  It was easy.  Every one listened.  You listened.  And your confidence in me somehow rubbed off.  Turns out, I was a good leader.

Now, you had a good reason to talk to me.  And you asked about some of the others stories I wrote.  You read them, and complimented them.  But you didn’t just say they were good.  You had specific sentences you liked.  You said the characters were realistic, because they were branches of me.  You asked me what I wanted to do.  Who I wanted to grow up to be.  I told you I wanted to be a writer.  And you said I should be a writer.  You’d be upset if I was anything else.

We talked about school, and existential stuff.  You’d experimented with way more drugs than I did at that time in my life.  This interested me, and you told me about your trips, uppers and downers, and LSD.  I was afraid to try more than weed.  Not because I thought I could die, but anxiety dictated my life.  Most of all, I was afraid I’d love it.  You told me of all the drugs you’d ever done, none was more powerful or addicting as a woman.  Not just any woman.  A woman with sadness that couldn’t be cured, a woman who always wanted more, needed more.  A beautiful woman.  Like me.  That’s what you said.  You said, I would be the worst and best drug to someone someday.  You said someone was going to get hooked on fixing my sadness, but they’d never succeed.  And it would haunt them.

I laughed.  You laughed too.  You said I thought you were kidding, but you weren’t.  I didn’t think you were kidding.  But I didn’t believe you.  I had no idea what you were talking about.  I was so young.

The semester continued, and I guess we became friends.  I wasn’t comfortable around you, ever, because you often told me I was pretty.  I was never good at taking compliments.  Especially then, when I was still a bit of an ugly duckling.  But you were easy to talk to, and funny.  And I was funny.  Which I usually wasn’t.  At least not around people I didn’t know well.  We talked about movies and television and comedy.  We both loved comedy.  We quoted bits, and exchanged jokes from some of our favorite comedians.  You asked me if I’d ever want to be a comedian.  I said no.  And you saw through that lie, even when I didn’t.

You talked about going back to Israel.  I really had very little knowledge about the conflict there.  But when you talked about going back, you had a determination, a twinkle in your eye that I had never seen, not even in the faces of the kids I knew who joined the U.S. army.  I hadn’t fully formed any of my dreams.  I said I was going to pursue journalism, but I wasn’t sure.  I wanted to write fiction.  I had a lot of dreams, but I let them go.  Like they were fire flies caught on a cool summers night.  I held onto them, briefly, then let them go before I could kill them.  You never bought that I was going to be journalist.  You didn’t doubt my abilities.  You thought I could do anything.  Be anyone.  I wasn’t sure why you were so nice to me.

It was almost too late when I became comfortable in that class.  This always happened.  It would be time for finals when I finally settled.  Finally, raised my hand.  Finally, had the confidence to read my work to the class, and accept the teachers favoritism towards me.

I think about you from time to time.  Sometimes, I believe you are dead.  You would think that’s funny, because my stories were always so morbid, in their humorous way.  You would laugh if you read this.  You would laugh if you saw my stand-up.  You would laugh at me, and you wouldn’t actually say, “I told you so,” but your body language would.

You were so honest.  More honest than anyone I’d ever met at that point in my life.  You were smart, and capable, but self destructive.  You were the kind of fucked up genius, like many comedians I’d come to know, adore, and empathize.  You felt so strongly about your country, and I wondered what that felt like.  I love the United States.  I don’t have any desire to live in another country.  But I lacked the zeal you had.  I wondered if I’d ever feel so passionately about anything as you did about your country, and you said I already did.  I just wasn’t letting it grow.  That’s what you said.  You said I was afraid.  I wasn’t sure what you were talking about then.

I feel like you saw my future better than I did.  Knew me better than I did.  Even though you didn’t know me at all.  If I’m MacBeth, you were the witches. I’d like to know what you see next.  But then I realized it doesn’t matter.  It never mattered.  Intense dreamers with demons will eventually embrace them.  I never had a choice.  I know that now.  I’m more me now than I was then.  I’m more fucked up, and more of a fuck up.  But you saw that coming to, didn’t you?

I wonder where you are now.  How you are.  If you’re happy.  Though, I know, you’ve always suffered internally even if you never had to.  And you always made other people laugh, even though you didn’t have to.  I wonder if you still write too.  I’d be mad if you didn’t.  I was thinking you should write about Israel.  And how you could make it interesting with your wit, and enlighten so many people.  You’re a ghost now, and I sometimes think you always were.  I guess I’d just want to say thank you.  Thank you for being your fucked up self.  Maybe we’ll meet again.  Even though, I’m sure we never will.