THE Friend
Occasionally in life we are blessed with one friend who, unlike other friends, acquaintances, lotharios, lovers and quickies, becomes a fixture in our lives. THE friend we call when we’re in a “lawyers, guns and money” situation. THE friend we call and carry forth with in good times and bad.
My friend, Trey, has been that person. Trey has been my best friend, confidant and intimate. A man closer to me than any other person on this planet has ever been. The person I’ve known longer than any other person that’s been in my life (and that includes my parents). Always there, always caring, always forgiving and always with a steady head, heart and hand.
In any event, this rock and center in my universe has decided to leave Seattle and return to his native Soil in Virginia. If I may indulge a moment of selfish candor while singing his praises, I cannot adequately express how diminished, how halved, how hurt I am to see him go. No matter how ugly things ever got in my life, I’ve always felt him to be my touchstone; the only one I’ve ever had. And, as I’ve gotten older and more crotchety, I’ve come to value and respect him and our relationship even more.
I met Trey several years ago, off a gay dating site called gay.com, and I pretty much dismissed him (I was like that back then…) barely even speaking to him. I had stopped by the Flower Shop where he’d worked at in the Castro, just a block up the street from my house, and he was working in the backroom. I was singularly uninterested in his what he was doing, probably dismissive and more than a little rude. I said my hellos, said my goodbyes and didn’t give it another thought.
A few days later, my friend Keith came bounding by (he was like that, always with the bounding..) and in tow, he brought Trey along. I’m almost certain I didn’t remember or recall him right away (because that’s how I was) and after a bit of chit-chat we all went to dinner. I can’t recall where now, but I’m sure the food was adequate, but the company was tremendous. Keith, in his younger days, was a storm runner, never at the eye of anything, but always just outpacing the wind and waves of personal drama just fast enough and artful enough to avoid anything sticking to him (including men). He had (and has) a horrifying sense of humor and no pause or editing features. Everything is rapid fire around him. And I know he kept us laughing over the meal almost the whole time. Trey, in contrast, had a sublime sense of humor, was ready with a laugh and was, for lack of a better description, easy company. Over the course of the meal, we three became fairly fast friends. I don’t recall the dynamics of the Castro during this period, but I’m pretty certain afterwards we went out bar-hopping and in this way we proceeded to spend the next several years.
There were movies seen, and much food eaten, and many street fairs attended. A few prides. And enough men traipsing through our three lives to fill a Pride Float. Good times! Which was a welcome relief from the bad times that had preceeded.
It’s only been recently, and with therapy, that I’ve started examining my early 20s in San Francisco. The number of funerals attended and the people flying through my life. By the time I’d met Trey and Keith I’d been emotionally exhausted. Drained by having to recount life stories of men I’d barely met and hardly knew, but for some tenuous and ironic reason was left as their living testament. I assisted on 3 panels for the quilt. One funeral I attended was for a man I’d never met, the spouse of my then lover. I slept in that dead man’s bed with his lover of 8 years while he lay dying in some crummy hospital room at St Josephs. The two of them had moved to San Francisco from Oklahoma together as “child-hood” sweethearts. And I was wracked with shame at the funeral. I broke down in the car on the way back, inconsolable and totally at a loss emotionally, spiritually. I broke up with him on the spot and proceeded to barricade myself in my apartment for months. People would call and say, “You know it would be nice if you said a few words..” or “I’d really like you to be there.” And I would give my terse apologies. Occasionally sending flowers, but becoming more and more a social pariah as I refused to have anything more to do with anyone.
But, I was online on Gay.Com. One of the first people there, in fact (which is why I have the best username, GWM, on the damned thing). That’s where I met Keith. He needed a couch to crash on while he was visiting from Colorado for a job interview. Keith came and stayed a few days got the job and eventually moved to San Francisco. With time and his prodding and a little effort, I began to re-emerge from my exile.
Then came Trey. Steady, reliable and very much fun. We went to Russian River together a few times, and a couple of trips to Seattle for fun. That’s when Trey fell in love with the Emerald City and decided he’d move here. After his apartment became owner occupied, he took over my living room (which was as big as some studios in The City) and we had a fairly easy time living together for a few months as he saved up the cash to relocate. I felt a pang of remorse when he left, which was probably a good sign, considering my fairly recent history. I hated to see him go, but honestly, I was the master at losing people. But we did stay in touch, regularly and consistently. I flew to Seattle on a couple of occasions (losing my wallet once, which was pretty horrifying - Trey vouched for me at the Airline ticket counter so they’d let me on the plane -imagine that, getting on a plane without six forms of ID and a passport!) . We swapped a couple of Thanksgivings, he visiting me, and me visiting him. It was great and it was our friendship that was enduring and it meant a lot to me.
I ran into my own troubles with San Francisco, owing to the implosion of the dot com era. Trey and I were talking about it, soon I was to lose pretty much everything, I couldn’t pay my rent, my car payments, afford food… it was awful. And so, he kindly offered up the basement room of the house he was renting in the Wallingford. I made my preparations and left the bay area, pretty much in tears; all of my belongings in two suitcases and a couple of boxes shipped from San Francisco.
I found a nice home with Trey. Neither hustle-bustle or overly frantic or mediocre and dull. We set out learning variations on chocolate chip cookie recipes. I made my first (and only) upside down pineapple cake in a skillet for his birthday one year. When Trey went out of town, I watched Buddy.
Now, no description of any man can be complete without a description of his dog. Or Dog in this case. Buddy is Trey’s Dog, a very sweet yellow lab. Make no mistake about it, the two are pair-bonded with that special relationship reserved for man and dog that’s existed for thousands and thousands of years. That is to say, Buddy is one neurotic Dog! When Trey would go out of town, I’d hide the razor blades for fear he’d try to slash his puppy paws open. I’d come home to find half of Trey’s underwear drawer scattered through the house. Toilet paper rolls would vanish, only to mysteriously re-appear, shredded in the TV room (and in the piles of poop I’d dutifully collect after our walks). Tubes of toothpaste squirted out to their last minty drop. And none of this done maliciously, I might add. That was just Buddy’s way of coping. Buddy is hardly malicious, and probably the best Dog I’ve ever had the honor to know. But when Trey was gone, he had to be in the same room with me. He would sit on my feet (he wasn’t allowed on the couch, though he slept there, instead of in Trey’s bed, when Trey was away. He thought I didn’t know, but the hair and pools of drool kind of gave him away). After a few days he’d get out of his malaise and start acting “normal” again, acting like he could maybe go on one more day. The deep, emotionally-laden and meaningful sighs as I tried to watch “Buffy the Vampire Slayer”, would eventually cease…and then Trey would come home! First thing Trey would do was take Buddy for his walk and the two of them would catch up with each other as only Master and Dog can do during walks. All would be right with the world and peace would descend on the house (for a little bit).
I lived with Trey for a couple of years and then began to push out on my own. It’s a terrible truth that I hate to live with others. The Wallingford house had, at any time, at least two other roommates hanging around, and frankly, I always found it creepy. The roommates were nice enough, but I just don’t like living around “others”.
Over the last several years both Trey and I have lost our fathers and neither felt anything truly remarkable about it, just the sense of “Thank god that’s over.” We weathered a couple of Thanksgivings. Though, this year, we boycotted it at the last minute. If I had known Trey was leaving I wouldn’t have. I would have insisted. But, there you go. One of those peculiarities of friendship I think, is when you get to a certain level of comfort, you take it for granted that they’ll be there tomorrow if you need them. No matter how insanely intense your life becomes, there’s one harbor, one level-headed person, one pal you can call no matter what. The one who, through the correct measures of familiarity and contempt can tell you what you should hear, what you need to know. Not a platitude or a dismissal.
If I lived to be 100 (and him to 107 - hehe) I could never adequately express my love, admiration and respect for Trey. He’s been my dearest and truest friend and I am going to miss him.