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Diverse we were, in athletic interests, athletic prowess, intellect, social graces and confidences — heck: one of us never played little league, one of us (me) couldn’t buy a date, and one of us grew up in a house where English was the second language! Still there we sat, five guys, fifty-fivish years later, in the corner of Red.

We don’t convene that often, actually. It took my marriage to do it. Mark’s in Columbus, but barely. Having just built a home down in Boynton Beach, he’ll retire next month and drag Lisa down south. Fenton? Already gone he is (no matter where he spends summers). Bobby, Art and I stand tall, however, imbedded in Cleveland. Even so, did not The Kraut relate that he might move to Israel?

It was the typical night. Discretion mandates no names be used, but suffice it to say that one of us charmed the server, one of us looked bored, one of us tried to impress the group by ordering appetizers Al Bogart never heard of, one of us kept trying to stir the pot and create controversies, and two of us (Erv and me, go figure), valeted cars.

Across from each other sat Stuey and I. Perfect. Unspoken communication brokered by two hours of eye contact kept both of us laughing. And Yes, Kraut was enjoying himself although he never seems quite as amused as Stu and I at having the SAME conversations over and over about the whereabouts of this girl or that guy…. or the inevitable question from our buddy:  “B, did you find Debbie for me yet?”

We hit priorities first:  the good news with Mark’s granddaughter, then the toast to my marriage… then, (to no one’s surprise) the annual update and breaking news on Marvin.

Bob and Erv haven’t changed an iota.  Their incarnation of Dandy Don Meredith and Howard Cosell blended friendship with their time-worn material — all to our table’s benefit.

Ed. Note: What? You don’t like the 70’s TV-duo analogy? How about this: Ermine played Donald Trump to Bobby’s Rick Perry on steroids.

And the conversation flowed—

Kraut says he won’t retire. I’ll die with my boots on. And Bobby? He won’t stop working, he says, but would consider living in Florida.

“How you going to work down there?” I asked.
“On my computer.”
“You sound like George Costanza,” Fenton told him, referring to George’s desire to be a major league baseball GM.

There was the typical nonsense. We urged the server to put extra garnish on Bob’s plate. He’d ordered steak, as did Ermine. Bobby true to his South Euclid roots went for quantity whereas Brother Mark ordered the small filet, opting for quality. (Both of them SO predictable). Ever-frugal Stuart asked for chicken yet when Kraut got lamb, I followed suit. (It wasn’t so much that I wanted lamb as that in the interim I’d asked Erv the difference between the two cuts of beef and as the waitress came around I still had no idea what the kid from Linnell Road had said).

The fact is it was a wondrous, harmonious evening — not even the gentle jousting that’s oft fueled our dinners. Indeed the only disagreement at all was the table debate about cruises. Stuart noted he’s “been on over fifty”; Mark said he’d never do it again. And me? I told them yet again, “Not in this lifetime!”.

“How do you know you won’t like it if you’ve never done it?” urged Stuart.
“I’ve never had a guy stick his dong up my ass,” I told him, “But I know I wouldn’t like that.”
(The subject changed).

Dine we did, for more than two hours. Sure, we stood mid-meal for the obligatory picture (as Bob and Mark sparred o’er whose I-phone to use).  But the night was for smiling… laughing…reveling…regaling.

Rejoicing!

The other four treated, in honor of my nuptials. Appreciate it I did, truly.

But what sustains us each at such times — is an appreciation…NO a reverence for our lifetime of friendships …

and more than anything else, our undying bond.

This entry was posted on Monday, August 17th, 2015 at 1:25 am and is filed under Up From Dysfunction. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.