Same As It Ever Was

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.
Mission Four: Reconnect.

There are friends in your life that know you. Then, even rarer, are those who know you better than you do. Fortunately, I have both kinds in my life. And Alex, he happens to fall into the second category. The only downside is he knows it.

Bullshit mission aside, Alex knew this was our night. A night to connect to a friendship no longer fueled by daily phone calls or warm Pennsylvania breezes. This night was about reconnecting to each other, about playing catch-up with our lives before the whirlwind wedding. Because, although weddings and the like bring people together, for the most part everyone remains soundly on the surface, filtering 10 years of living into non-speak sounds. Alex was smart enough to know about this language. And he was not about to let anyone or anything get in the way of our night.

Alex would often play to my neurotic side, inventing scenarios that needled at my very core. The “date” with the girls was just that, a scenario. There were no dates or friends to meet that night. It was just two childhood friends, a dive bar and a grand supply of alcohol that was in the cards. And that was a hand I gladly took, even without a shower.

We arrived at some place off Times Square. Man, things sure had changed since MTV came here. There were hardly any hookers or other scary characters. I mean, there were a few, but nothing different than a Saturday night in Hollywood. We walked into Jimmy’s Corner, a divey little bar and sat our asses down.

“What do you think?” Alex asked.

“Wow, it looks like a PA bar. How did you find this place?”

“Wait, this is the best part,” he said, turning to the waitress, ”two Stella’s, please.”

“Wow, your dad used to keep those in his basement fridge.”

“Yea, it guess Stella’s in my blood.”

“Maybe we should raid some when we go home, or do you think we’re too old to steal beer from your parents?”

“Fuck that, Rob. Free beer is free beer. You never outgrow stealing alcohol. What are you, a Mormon?”

The waitress put down the two drafts.

"Ok, did you see the best part,” he said, waving to an old man in the corner, “it’s free. Everything here is on the house for me.”

The man was obviously in his late seventies, and wore every year on his leather-bound face.

“Big Al,” the old guy said, extending his hand to Alex.

“Jimmy G, how the hell are you?” he said.

“Livin', how are you? You’ve been away.”

“Yea, the fucking job, you know. By the way, this is my old friend Rob Lowe. We grew up together.”

It was obvious he threw out the full name to redirect away from “Big Al.” But that wasn’t happening. My brain is sticky with shit like that.

The old man smiled and put out his hand, leathery and fertile. I grabbed his large mit, doing everything in my power not to stare at the massive hands. I realized just underscoring an acknowledgement like that can be. He held onto my hand, and looked at me with 70plus-year-old eyes.

“Rob Lowe, now where do I know that name from?”

Alex smiled before bring his condescending diatribe.

“Rob Lowe is a famous actor Jimmy. He was on West Wing, made a bunch of movies, and even filmed himself having sex.”

“Ho, ho,” Jimmy laughed, “never a good idea.”

“You know those Hollywood types,” Alex said, pointing his thumb my way, “they’re fucked up out there.”

“Ho, ho, they sure are.”

Alex turned to me.

“Rob, I know you do not know anything about boxing. Anything. But, let me tell you that this man is a legend. A fucking legend,” he said loudly. “Seriously, I don’t mean to stroke him off, but look at these pictures. They tell an amazing story of an extraordinary life.”

“Ho, ho, he’s too kind, really. I’m just a man, just like you’re one. Just living my life and doing what I love. That’s all.”

"Yea, teaching fighters to beat the living shit out of each other. I love that shit too."

"Ho, ho. Now stop with that talk."

“Cut the humble shit Jimmy. Your Jimmy Fucking Glenn. My friend needs to know that he’s face-to-face with a living legend of sport.”

A waitress came up, tapped Jimmy on the shoulder and pointed to the back room.

“Boys, I’ve got to go. But, Ron, it was great meeting you. If you guys need anything, they know to take care of you, right Gina?” he said to the waitress.

“Right Jimmy,” she said, smiling at us.

“How do you know that guy?” I asked.

“Just from coming over the years. I’ve used his place for some location work. It’s small, gritty and comes off great on film. We usually go in the back room.”

We both chugged and got another.

“Ron, let me ask you a question,” Alex said, hoisting his glass for punctuation. "What’s it like to fuck a hooker? I mean, because I never have. I fucked sluts before, but they’re just loose,” he said, amused by his own joke.

I really wasn’t sure how to answer that question. I knew Alex read my blog, so there was no point denying it, like I plan to do if my parents ever call me on it. Instead, I just took a breath and brought my mind back to the birthday, to the money, to the Bellagio.

“It was weird, because part of the whole fantasy thing was me picking them up at the pool. I was trying to stay so much in character, that I didn’t really think of them as hookers. But, I can tell you what it’s like to be with two women at once if you'd like.”

He smiled, going back in time to his threesome in college. The one he called me up right afterward.

"We both know that won't be necessary."

I liked the smug side of Alex. It only really came out with me around.

I smiled at the memory.

“The hooker, I mean, the girl still calls me.” I added, “the one that I wrote about. But, it was a one-time deal. I’m not here to judge, but I’m not here to save either. Imagine me bringing home a hooker to my parents.”

“Your mom would die,” he answered blankly.

“Yea, but anyway, I kind of thought of it as paying for a life experience that happened to include a little girl-on-girl action.”

“Well rationalized. I’ll sell it to your mom that way tomorrow.”

“You do that, Big Al.”

He looked at me, and took a drink.

“I always wanted to see what it was like, to pay for sex. Not just for how it was for me, but to see how the person I was paying responded. Kind of a sociological experiment,” he said.

“Yea, Alex, most people pay for blowjobs because they enjoy the sociological side. What the fuck does that even mean?”

He smiled, and took another drink.

“Fuck it, anyway I could never do it. My parents did a fucking moral number on me growing up.”

"They sure did," I said, grabbing my drink.

We sat silent for a few moments, each taking in our surroundings with different perspectives.

“Tracy, how’s she?” he said, releasing me from the scattered photos on the wall.

“Good, she’s busy with work and is on this sick fitness kick. She’s always at the gym.”

“But she's pretty fit, right? The last time I saw her she was. Did she have your love child or something and she’s trying to shed the extra LBs.”

“Fuck no, don’t even joke about that. She’s got a ridiculous body, but I guess it’s for stress or some shit. I don’t ask dude. Not anymore”

“But she’s your babymama.”

“Do I need to say the name again?”

“That stays between us,” he said, "Jimmy's the only one that calls me that."

"Not anymore."

I became lost in the photos once again.

“So tomorrow, we’ll leave around noon or so. I wanted to stop by my house first. I can drop you off and we can catch up for dinner.”

“That's fine,” I said, transfixed on a boxer's photo. The guy looked like a tall James Brown in the picture.

“I’ve got my car in Hoboken, in a garage out there. We can go get it in the morning and then take off.”

“In fucking Hoboken? Why is your car there?”

“Rob, you want to know how much it is to get a garage in the city. More than your mortgage I bet.”

“Shit really? Then why do you have one?”

“What, and abandoned Penny? Wash your mouth out with soap.”

“Penny, fuck, you still have the Chevelle. That thing is still running?”

“Put $10 grand into it, runs like a fucking giant.”

“Jesus, 10k into a muscle car. No wonder you're parking in Jersey.”

“A 35-year old collectors car, all original. Get off my back, Lowe. What are you driving these days?"

I knew he was leading me.

"Volvo, but you knew that already."

"Yea, just like I thought. At least you and my mom will have something to talk about. She's got the Sporty SUV," he said, making his point.

“Great Idea, Big Al.”

“Not funny, Rob. But seriously, I’m trying to cut costs since the old divorce, so I gave up our garage in the city.”

And it was spoken. The word we had been dancing around. Even with friends as close as we were it was hard to hear it spoken.

“How’s that going?” I asked in the most vague, and equally leading manner possible.

“Uh, I mean," he said, collecting his thoughts. "Rob don’t get married unless you’re sure. I mean, divorce wipes everything away. The happiness, the laughter. All that you’re left with is a bitter taste.”

He said the word again, divorce. Maybe it was cathartic for him.

“But I’m sure there were some good memories, right?”

“I’m still searching for them. They all have a cloud around them and I’m fighting through the fog. Imagine if something happened that made you re-look at all the events preceding that flashpoint. What if you were adopted or some shit and just found out. It throws a new perspective on things. It makes the happy times seem staged, even derogatory. God, I’m bitter.”

“No, you’re not. Well, yes you are, but don’t beat yourself up about it. It’s a natural part of the process.”

“I’m not sure Rob. I’ve forgiven her, but that wasn’t the end. As hard as I worked at that, thinking forgiveness would clear everything up, it never did. Fuck. When I did forgive her, I realized that was just the beginning. I checked my ego at the door and everything to make amends. But it wasn't enough.”

“You have an ego?” I asked, trying to lighten him up.

He paused for a moment, then played along. I knew him better than he knew himself, too.

“Yea, I’ve got one, give me your hand and I’ll let you touch it for a buck.”

“Actually, that would be great,” I said, calling his bluff and grabbing for my wallet. He didn’t want to play anymore. I knew when to fold them.

“I’ve been thinking a lot lately, and for me, the hardest part of the split is the everyday reminders or lack of them. They’re fucking everywhere.”

I nodded.

“Like this place, thank God I never brought her here, but If I did I wouldn’t want to come back. I should have moved out and gave her the fucking apartment. Let her have the fucking memories. But she went to live with ‘him.’ And she took the fucking dog. Bitch

“She took Quinn the Queef. Phew, I thought she died or something.”

He looked at me with angry 8th grade eyes.

“Ok, not funny again. But you hated that dog,” I said, defending the nickname.

“I didn’t hate the dog, Rob. I just wasn’t a yap dog kind of guy. I mean growing up with Brandy and Timber, they were big macho dogs. But I grew to love the little gerbil.”

“Gerbil. Interesting word choice,” I said. I was back in 8th grade. Unfunny then and unfunny now.

“It sucks, because every morning when I would get up, fucking Quinn would scratch on the door to let her in. I’d be on the shitter and she would be biting at my ankles, and in the shower, she would bark at the glass. It was a sadistic ritual to go to the fucking bathroom, but you know what?”

“Uh, you’re being rhetorical, right. Hey, so am I?”

He ignored me, and made it known with his eyes.

“I can’t take a shower without thinking of that fucking little mutt. Every morning I get up and stand in the shower, hoping she’ll come by to molest my ankle with her little pink crayon. Ok, not really like that," he said, lost in his moment, "Rob, why would I want back the part of my life I thought I hated?”

I nodded, sympathetically. I really had nothing so say.

“I cried in that shower more than I’ve cried anywhere in my life. It’s fucking not fair.”

We both sat there, in quiet acknowledgement of something that had obviously been bothering him for a while. The floodgates were open. It was like when he was dumped back in sophmore year. Only this time it was more real.

“This is not my house. This is not my beautiful wife,” I mumbled with lyrical understanding.

He paused and smiled.

“Time is a pony ride.”

I brought us out of the abstract, inside joke and brought us back to the bar.

“I never understood that part of the song. But, I think you may need a change of scenery dude, especially if you're crying over queefy. Seriously, I’ve got an extra room in my place. I only use it to jerk off in and occasionally sodomize the cleaning lady. It’s yours if you want it. I can use the hallway for ass play.”

“Funny, because that’s exactly what I was thinking. Maybe not about you having a pull, or victimizing your cleaning lady, but getting my sorry ass out of here. That's what I was thinking. Too many memories.”

“Bad ones.”

“Yea, and good ones too. I just need new ones.”

“I’m kind of seeing a 21-year old with hot roommates. I’m sure they could give you some memories.”

He smiled.

“Maybe you’re too old for a city that doesn’t fucking sleep. You need your bedrest or you get real cranky. Besides, I've built a life of running away from my problems, and look at how well I turned out.”

“I am tired. Let’s talk about this in the morning. I feel like drinking now.”

So we raised our glass to hope, promise, the proximity of friendship. And finally to David Byrne.

“Time is a pony ride,” I said, not even knowing what I was saying.

Or maybe I did.