The Joy of Male Friendship

With women, I speak in pleasantries. "How's Max and Lindsey doing since they got married?" I'll ask Suzen, or "How's Gabe doing at school?" I'll ask Nicole." Once in a while, its "How's work going Ev?" That's a favorite, that works with both sexes.

With men, it's not just "how's work", it's the details of the work. I listen intently as Rich tells me about the new computer application for personnel they installed for the County Board of Social Services. I get the blow by blow behind the scenes account of what the bosses do right, or not, in his view, and compare it to how I was as a boss. Just like I share my views more intently when we see a Saturday action or sci-fi flick together. 

"Yeah, they really didn't need that scene in Fast & Furious 6 where the car dealer dropped his pants, that was stupid." But a lot of people in the audience laughed. "Nor the requisite city-race scene with all the hot mamas and hot cars, but that seems to be their trademark, besides the unbelievable action." We'll spend a good five minutes talking about the movie and audience reactions, and our own. In that movie, the last scene was killer, and means we'll definitely see # 7.

I'm speaking as a 63 year old adult here. Quite different than when I was a boy. When I was growing up on the rough streets of Trenton, every white boy was an automatic friend, and every black boy an enemy. Every spanish boy was a potential enemy. I'm glad I'm past all those stereotypes now. But our grammar school was 98% white, so it was hard not to get prejudiced somehow. No, I didn't get it overtly from family members, thank God, so it didn't get ingrained. But in the fifties and sixties making friends was easy, very easy. Just like getting a job, even a good paying job.

In 6th grade, all classmates were friends. By 8th we had cliques on both sides of the sexual divide. I hung out with David Schuster, the toughest kid in school by every measure. A punch like a jackhammer. I know because others would hold me while he punched me, and other boys, in  the chest -- just to see if we could take it. He taunted us to try it on him, but nobody did. We would walk down Center Street to Junior High Number 4? and wait for the black boys to get out of school. Then we'd pick fights for no reason. Stupid, cruel, and criminal now.  

There was also Joey Catana, who lived on Second Street. He and I would exchange comic books of Superman and Flash, Green Lantern and Dr Strange, Tales from the Crypt and more, even Mad. And we'd actually talk about the characters and stories. Hence I love the current flush of DC and Marvel movies, even tho I never read the X-Men much. So us guys talked.

I played basketball at St. Joachim's blacktop court, and sand lot baseball with the guys in the fields out back when Mom, Stephen and I moved to Ewing Twp. in '62. I kabitzed and chatted with the neighborhood boys, shared hopes and ideas. we were all buddies, building tunnels in the dirt, a treehouse and a fort. We had no cares, no real problems. 

When the three of us had lived in Trenton, until I was twelve, we were a step above the poorest in our midst, whom we avoided. I would ride my bike to Rich Meskel's house on Lamberton and we'd cruise the city haunts. Rich was mild-mannered to Dave's violent nature. And they were my best friends in grammar school, so maybe I was balanced? Never saw them again after graduating in 1964.

In high school I was a loner. No best friend or friends. Plenty of acquaintances, yes, hanging out, playing "hit me" in the halls, saying hello and chatting. The closest I had to a best friend was John Piccone -- he had a black 58 Chevy he would let me ride shotgun in. But that ended when we got busted by Ewing police for sniffing glue and being whacked out of our brains. But by summer of 67, Janet H., a senior, was becoming my best friend and soul mate. It was easier making friends with her friends, like Don Fish, who got me my career start with the State of New Jersey three years later.

After barely graduating Ewing High I left to try college in southern California and met Arthur in the school cafeteria. A singer/ songwriter, I drove him to record companies on Sunset Strip for (cassette) tape auditions and promotions. By the time I left five months later he had an album produced. We would also go to parks and Arthur would sing and play guitar while I flirted with the girls. But no deep exchanges, no inner secrets shared on my part with them, and I never did. 

I was a good liar, and could avoid being pinned down. I never spun tall tales, just enough to avoid being totally truthful about myself, and with myself. I was a creep.

'69 was a turning point when three ex-classmates took me in and we shared an apartment on Carteret Ave. Mike Wallo, Tom Cerrone and Dickie Heiser. We spoke in metaphors often, when we were stoned on uppers, pot and hash, and lots of beer, ripple and wine. Keg parties were normal occurrences. Otherwise, we joked a lot, were friendly enough, and never had any killer arguments. Except when I locked Tommy out of his room so I could make out with Tina from the downstairs apartment. He pounded the door and shouted and I just kept groping Tina. Finally I unlocked the door and got blasted (not punched -- but he was mad enough). 

Those friendships led to renting a house/mansion with six of us (five guys, one girl), then to a split where Hank Alexander and I got our own two-story apartment. Hank was a good friend, but we never talked about serious issues, except the poor nature of world events and the need to fix them. Not personal stuff.

It wasn't til meeting the Baha'is in '69 that I started opening up and coming out of my shell(s). I've had many male friends since. All of us are close, knowing each other for decades, but three stand out. The guy who threw my cigarette lighter out the window cause he heard they might blow up in your face, the know-it-all and punster who is unbelievably astute and easy to chat with, and my joke-telling buddy who I see every week. All unique friendships,

They and others will be shocked when they read part of my true story soon when my book Episodes of ABLiA is published. We'll see how they react and what attitudes are then.

Friendships change all the time, right?

By Rodney Richards, NJ