Absent Friends, Epilogue: Inspiration

I awoke the morning of December 11th to an amazing sight as a steady stream of brilliant white snowflakes fell delicately to the ground, covering Baton Rouge in its first real snowfall in many years.

"It's a Christmas miracle!" Alan lightheartedly exclaimed.

While it may've fallen short of an actual miracle, I still couldn't believe my eyes. Snow! In Baton Rouge! It was a definite reminder that life could still surprise me.

As I hurried to get dressed, I spied a family of mourning doves taking refuge on our back porch, huddled together in warmth and safety. They were probably as confused as the rest of us.

Rushing outside, camera in hand, I found my neighbors already celebrating the excitement as they built snowmen and threw snowballs and carried on with reckless delight. I soon learned that I was having an honest-to-goodness "snow day," as the college would be closed for the duration of the flurry and I, too, could enjoy the uncommon phenomenon from the comfort of my home. Within moments, I had the Christmas tree lit, a fire crackling brilliantly in the hearth, and a cup of coffee accented by a splash of holiday-themed pumpkin spice cream by my side, completing the mood.

"What are you going to do today?" Alan asked somewhat bitterly after learning that he was one of the few in town expected to report to work.

I paused a moment, smiled, and said, "I'm going to write."

The end.

Absent Friends, Chapter Ten: Something to Remember

While there were still other people and places I wish I could have seen during my brief homecoming, my last day in South Florida was gladly spent with Bart and A.J., kicked off by a lovely bonding experience wherein A.J. and I worked together to reconnect the detachable backseat of Penny's car. It became damaged upon removing it in order to make more room in the vehicle for transporting large items to the new house but, thanks to our unexpected mechanical expertise and an unfettered willingness to hit it repeatedly with a large mallet until it fit together again, we were able to save the day.

Later that morning, before heading to the airport and after saying an emotional goodbye to Penny and Joe, we drove to Doreen's apartment across town and spent a little time helping her prepare for Christmas. Doreen lives in a private community common to South Florida reserved for people over 55, meaning visits from kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids were exciting events looked upon with great anticipation by the many residents that dwelled within.

In a scene you might expect to find in a Lifetime made-for-TV movie, Doreen played Christmas carols on the old organ in her living room while we pranced about and adorned the small tree with handmade ornaments, each of which had a back-story imbued with history and sentiment. It made me think a lot of the holiday traditions Alan and I now share, like how we would be soon decorate our own Christmas tree as we've done in years past, wearing our matching flannel PJs and with Emmet Otter's Jug-Band Christmas playing in the background, drenched in all the hokeyness of the season as humanly allowed by parish law.

After, we sat around the living room and listened to Doreen regale us with tales of her late husband, a man I knew briefly in my childhood. She spoke of him having been at Pearl Harbor during the morning of December 7, 1941, and proudly shared with us a collection of his medals of honor she had on display an in old glass casing. She also spoke of the difficulty living through the Depression and how excited she is to bear witness to the dawn of an exciting new era under our recently elected African-American president. Such a fascinating history lesson all wrapped up in a delicate 83-year-old frame.

Before we departed, she expressed her joy in having spent time with us during the holiday.

"You kids are alright by me," she said more than once. High praise, indeed.

Our last hours together were spent in Fort Lauderdale, where I lived in the years between Coral Springs and Atlanta. Driving down US1 was like experiencing a postcard come to life. Much like Coral Springs, Fort Lauderdale appeared to evolve considerably in the eight since I left; everything about it screamed "vacation" … A.J. would even remark how strange it seems that anyone ever really "lives" in a town that seems so obviously meant for vacationers. I couldn't comment, as my years living in Lauderdale proper were never about the beach or "the scene." I suppose you sometimes don't fully appreciate living in place like that until you're gone.

But now, as a tourist, I could enjoy it as it was meant to be enjoyed. We found ourselves at a charming seaside bistro for lunch where we could see the grandeur of the ocean in full panoramic view. Pseudo-vintage trolleys rolling up and down the strip emitted a gentle hum while a nearby calypso band played Christmas music with a slight Caribbean spin. Just yards away, swarms of hard-bodied boys with rippling muscles and flawless abs emerged from the waves in droves, evoking a scene one might expect to find in a Night of the Living Dead flick, only much sexier and with far less bloodshed. God, how I hate them all.

When I wasn't distracted by the beautiful people or the leering advances of our lecherous waiter with the lazy eye (which were, after years in Baton Rouge not being cruised by anyone, completely welcome), I would turn my attention to Bart and A.J. and how unbelievably happy they seemed together. It's almost as if they are wrapped in a perpetual lullaby or inviting embrace, never afraid to show their love and affection. They are so very much like Bart's parents in their adoration and respect for one another … I wonder if they see it, too.

Following lunch, A.J. decided to take advantage of the locale and remain on the beach, so we said our farewells and I thanked him for being so unbelievably accommodating during the emotionally-charged voyage through my psychosis.

"I only wish we had more time together," he offered in earnest.

I did, too, but I imagine that spending time with me is a lot like when the radio stations first start playing nothing but Christmas music in the weeks leading up to the holiday: it's really nice in the beginning but, after a while, you feel like if you have to hear "Feliz Navidad" one more time you're gonna yank José Feliciano himself out of the radio and throttle him with your bare hands. He earned his downtime.

Leaving A.J. to enjoy the sand and the sea, Bart and I spent our last hours together driving around the city, passing familiar places and talking of old times. We instinctively sought out recognizable landmarks and places that held meaning to us, like the little marina tucked away from the main road where Peter docked his boat Dun Wurkin and the fading storefront that once housed an eclectic diner we used to frequent for Sunday brunches. I was saddened to discover it was now a restaurant serving Cuban cuisine.

"That's a shame," I said.

"Things change," he stated.

Things do change, I guess. But sometimes, even within those changes, things can stay the same.

Later, sitting in the car outside the airport, faced with that horrible moment we've experienced a dozen times before, I looked at my friend and asked, "Until next time?"

"Until next time," he smiled.

As I grabbed my luggage from the car and headed toward the gate, he called out the window to me. "Hey! This trip home … did you find what you were looking for?" But before I could think of a response, he added, "Never mind … I'll read about it later."

Soon after on the plane, I tried to scribble some sort of an outline for the tale I knew I wished to tell but still couldn't quite get it started. Despite Bart's unwavering belief that I would once again recount an important life event in a tastefully written anecdote shared via the Internet with only my closest friends, I still had my fair share of demons keeping it from becoming an absolute reality. After all, I didn't really succeed in putting the band back together. But I probably came as close as I could, for the moment, anyway. And life is all about the moments, isn't it?

Instead, I silently pondered of all the obvious things I had learned during my journey, clichéd truths and lessons and thoughts and beliefs that, if I were to write the story, would certainly never find their way into the last chapter unless I wanted to be perceived as trite or hacky. Truths like coming to terms with the reality that I may not be everything to everyone but I can be something to each of the people in my life — and vice versa. Lessons about how, for every person that may choose to distance himself from me, for whatever reason, there will be another that will never leave. Thoughts of how maybe, just maybe, my memories of a group of people linked together by a shared heritage were not just the mad delusions of a wishful thinker and how, whether we realize it or not, we truly are the summation of the people with whom we share our lives. And a belief that by embracing my past while at the same time charting my future, I can achieve continuity without regret. We all can.

But I would never end my story with such pedestrian conclusions.

I did manage to write something on the notebook before completely giving up, however: a note reminding me to update my Master Plan as soon as I returned home. But instead of striking through the line about reuniting with my friends, I thought perhaps to amend it to read "Reunite with My Friends More Often." That, and adding something about thanking Marc — in what may be his last act of friendship toward me — for inspiring me to finally begin recreating my lost memories.

Oh, and "Get Married."

It felt like it was time for a little music. When we finally reached an altitude where it was safe for us to begin using our "approved portable electronic devices," I put away the notebook and removed from my bag my iPod and, unable to decide on my mood, set it on "shuffle play," letting the expensive piece of equipment do the thinking for me. A staggering 8606 possible selections spanning a century of theatre and song and what does it choose to play first? Madonna's 1992 "This Used to Be My Playground," a powerful ballad about remembering one's past that I hadn't heard in years.

And why do they always say "no regrets"…? But I wish that you were here with me … well, then there's hope yet … I can see your face in our secret place … you're not just a memory … say goodbye to yesterday … those are words I'll never say.

In other words, continuity without regret. How freakin' cool is that?

To be concluded...

Absent Friends, Chapter Nine: Ken and Alexandria

I entered through the foyer where so many great times both began and ended and saw my friend Ken sitting quietly in the remodeled waiting area. Suppressing a smile, I approached him as he stood up to greet me and, without words, we embraced.

Ken and I met on June 16, 1992. I know the day well because it was the day after I graduated from high school. He was a new friend of Ellen's and she arranged for the three of us to meet at the Coral Springs public library on the morning following my big graduation party, which incidentally was held at the hotel located right next door to Wag's.

"He's someone we need to know," she told me.

He was sixteen at the time and it wasn't long before he became inducted into our ever-expanding group of friends. Later labeled "Ken the Quiet Guy" by Jen DeWhats-her-face, he may have been the first among us to truly bridge the gap between my high school life and my adult one, participating in a number of adventures in the ensuing years that forever garnered him a place in my heart. The last time I saw him was in 1997, when he was home from college visiting his mother. Now, eleven years later, he's a renowned mathematician, finishing his Ph.D. and living with his wife less than a mile from 31st Street.

We took a seat in a booth near the front window and did what we had done a million times before: sit in Wag's and talk. For hours, we caught up on our lives up until that very point, speaking of shared adventures and mutual friends, like experiencing the many mad antics of Bart firsthand or the pain we felt the day Ellen moved away.

"We need to have a reunion," he said, reminding me once again that my memories were not as tainted as I feared they were. "All of us."

And while a reunion involving "all of us" seemed unlikely to happen anytime soon, a smaller, more immediate reunion was just around the corner as my longtime friend Alexandria was about to make her first appearance in my life in six years.

If you are one to believe in the existence of parallel universes, you might also believe that, as unlikely as it seems, somewhere in the cosmos exists a heterosexual version of me. And on this strange parallel world where I am straight and golden coins drop from the sky every time it rains, it is quite likely that my first romantic relationship was with Alexandria.

In our true reality, we met on our first day of fifth grade. Part Zooey Deschanel and part Princess Leia, she exuded an energy that fused siple girlhood charm with an unspoken strength and self-assurance. She was new in town and, without a qualm of hesitation, made her intentions known to me that she and I were going to be good friends. And thus began a friendship that has survived twenty-four years.

Whether in the background or as one of the main players, Alex was there with me throughout it all. She played alongside Tara and Bart when we were children, experienced the machinations of evil Jen DeWhats-her-face firsthand during our teens, partied with Michelle and Josh on Las Olas Boulevard in our twenties, and always — always — accepted me for the person I am.

Importantly, Alex holds a unique place in my life as being one of the first people ever to encourage me to write. She was an exceptionally creative child and, together, we spent many hours constructing a fictional universe of heroes, villains, science, magic, and fantasy. We would each write a chapter of our shared story during the day and then read it to one another by phone every night. This continued for years until we had crafted a connected body of work worthy of Tolkien. I still have boxes of our notes, sketches, and tales that I like to revisit every now and then for inspiration.

Married now with two children of her own, Alex works for a prominent nationwide bakery chain following a near-fatal collision with a dump truck that had run a red light, almost bringing to a grisly end a most magnificent life. Looking at her, though, you could never tell. She is still the same beautiful, bubbly, brazen girl that approached me in 1984 and changed my world forever.

The last time she and I saw each other was at our ten-year high school reunion, following which she got the chance to meet Alan, Christi, and another dear friend, Peter. I actually have the photo we all took together that evening in a frame on my bedroom dresser, a constant reminder of how lucky I am to know such marvelous people.

The three of us were sitting together for a good twenty minutes before I realized that Alex and Ken had somehow never met before, the assumption that they had the result of my overactive brain remembering the past the way I wanted to, not the way it was. It mattered not, as they immediately took to one another and a new friendship was born.

We spent the whole evening together, at one point landing in the Borders bookstore that once foolishly employed Jen DeWhats-her-face. I have mentioned Jen DeWhats-her-face several times throughout this narrative because she, too, was a huge part of my life that crossed into the lives of many others at my insistence, and no heartfelt melodramatic tale of days of old could be complete without her inimitable presence.

I refer to her as Jen DeWhats-her-face because I am mindful not to use last names in this story, but calling her "Jen" simply doesn't do her justice. Ever since I've known her, she is widely referred to by her first and last name spoken together in one long breath, kind of like a celebrity ... but a celebrity who steals your food and terrorizes your life partners. Something of a recluse who, on the surface, appears to hate everyone and everything, she is in fact a thoughtful and devoted friend, a stunning beauty with an equally beautiful soul ... it just takes some time to find it beneath the layers of cynicism and semi-digested Ovaltine powder.

We met when I was still in high school and I was immediately captivated by her brutal honesty and questionable disdain for the world around her. She could spit lyrical fire with her dry wit and impeccable timing, shredding her closest friends to tattered pieces and permanently scarring menfolk across three counties. But, like witnessing a wreck between a clown car and a bus full of nuns, you just can't help but be enthralled no matter how unsettling it is.

But that's Jen. Unusual, uncompromising, and unbelievably real. She found her way to Atlanta shortly after I did, a gesture that meant more to me than I think I ever truly admitted. She's still there, actually, living her life and frightening the natives on a path that veered away from mine years ago. Regardless, she'll always be one of us.

While inside Borders, Ken and Alex regaled each other with tales of Jen imprinting on their lives, their words highlighting an intricate and interrelated past that neither knew they shared before that moment. As they weaved yet another layer onto the complicated tapestry that is my life, I felt great pleasure in the continued validation of my mission.

Later, as we sat in a surprisingly tasteful microbrewery tucked away in the area of town that has come to be known as "Restaurant Row," indulging on German beer and goblets of Pinot Noir, we somehow got to talking about Bart and his enduring impact on our lives.

"It's his voice," Ken said with much certainty. "Not his intonation, as hilarious as that can be, but the way he expresses himself when he's not speaking. I've never known another living soul who could make such a powerful statement simply by standing in a room with you. It's inspiring."

"He does project a certain indefinable confidence," I agreed.

Alex added, "For me, it's definitely his spirit. I can remember how just being around him when we were kids was explosive, like a visit to a fireworks factory or a candy store. You always knew that having Bart around meant an adventure was about to happen."

I smiled as I absorbed the obvious fondness they both felt for my friend.

"What about you, Chris?" they asked me in near unison. "What is about Bart that you admire most?"

I thought briefly about how I could possibly sum up twenty-five years of friendship in one sentence. I also thought of how I began this journey seeking some kind of psychological affirmation and how, in the last forty-eight hours, I got it.

"He's Bart," I finally said through a half-cocked smile.

We lifted our glasses in a toast to our friend.

Later that evening, Bart joined me for a few moments in my bedroom — his old bedroom, the one in which we spent countless hours playing and laughing and dreaming in the days before the weight of the world made itself known to us — for our usual "moment alone" conversation that had become something of a standard in our adult visits with one another. He was wearing some random pink and white bathrobe that he insisted was seersucker and not terrycloth, although I wasn't convinced. It most likely belonged to his mother but somehow it very appropriately screamed "Bart" to me.

We sat side by side on the edge of the bed and spoke of many things. I briefly considered sharing with him my conversation with Alex and Ken but ultimately decided to save it for another day.

It was midway through our exchange that I had the most incredible sense of déjà vu. I think I may have also had a vision of the future, a vision of two little boys sitting together in their old age seeing glimpses of the their lives reflected in one another's eyes, and knowing with absolute certainty that such a day will come.

"You've been frightfully introspective since you arrived," he said moments later with an air of concern.

"Have I?" I shot back rhetorically.

"I worry about you, you know. Are you going to be okay?"

"Perhaps I'm purposely being pensive so I can later write about this very experience," I replied without really answering his question.

"Perhaps," he said, understanding me completely.

The tone soon shifted and we pulled out my iPod and listened to sound bytes from old Meryl Streep movies (yes, I have sound bytes from old Meryl Streep movies on my iPod), he with one extension of the headphones in one ear and I with the other, and quoted along merrily to some of our favorites in perfect unison, as perhaps only he and I could do.

Continuity without regret, I thought.

Soon after, he bid me farewell and retired to his room, leaving me alone with my iPod and a faith in a bright new tomorrow.

To be continued…

Absent Friends, Chapter Eight: An Interlude with Ghosts

It was my initial intent to overlap my visits with assorted friends during this whirlwind tour of times gone by. In my mind's eye, I saw a grand gathering of relationships spanning my lifetime, all of us joyfully sitting together in a particular diner that held some meaning to us as we talked and laughed and silently validated my insane need to be the center of some illustrious group. But upon absorbing the magnitude of my intentions, as well as the difficulty of coordinating such an endeavor with all involved, it became quite clear that my delusions of grandeur would need to be shelved in favor of a little realism. The desire to revisit that particular diner, however, did not.

Following our visit with Tara and Missy, Bart and A.J. decided to break off for some "alone time." I was disappointed that Bart would not be present for my next reunion, as he also shared a history with the people I was about to see, but I understood and respected his wishes. And although A.J. was as open and sociable as he could be, I imagine it must be somewhat taxing to have to vicariously relive someone else's memories ad nauseum (in person, not via blog, which is of course perfectly fine). As such, they dropped me off at a Barnes and Noble down the street from the diner in question where I, too, relegated in some alone time before my next meeting.

Sitting in one of those oversized chairs scattered about the store, I jotted more of my thoughts down in my weathered notebook and contemplated titles and chapter names for the story you are currently reading. In fact, in keeping with the momentum we felt during the concert two nights prior, I briefly toyed with the idea of naming all of the chapters of this missive after Madonna songs but soon discovered that it's rather difficult to use words like "Erotica" and "Borderline" in a tender story about retracing your roots or spending Thanksgiving with Bart's family.

Anyway, a thought that kept replaying in my mind was how much Coral Springs had changed since my day, and how strange it felt to be a tourist in my own hometown. Perhaps it's because I've been so traumatized by life in Baton Rouge, but I couldn't believe how metropolitan Coral Springs seemed to me. As I walked up the street to my next destination, passing boutiques and taverns that surely didn't exist when I was a boy, I was somewhat taken aback by how clean and modern the city felt. Gorgeous weather, strings of manicured palm trees, and a bright blue sky punctuated by velvety clouds and a lovely breeze were complimented by lush landscapes, interesting architecture, and that distinct sea-inspired fragrance indigenous to South Florida in the fall.

I also couldn't believe the overabundance of pedestrian traffic I encountered on my walk, folks who were out and about window shopping and sipping designer lattes at any number of welcoming sidewalk cafés and coffee shops. Maybe it's a case of the grass being greener, or just simply seeing a familiar place through new eyes, but this was definitely not the Coral Springs I remembered.

As I passed one such café, I quickly noticed a group of teenagers sitting outside together: four girls and one very animated boy, laughing as they unknowingly lived the moments that would someday become their precious memories. I thought of my own friends as I watched them carry on from a comfortable distance, hearing only snippets of their conversation and knowing instantly that they could very well have been us, many years prior. Amy, Ellen, Heidi, and Jody … four other amazing souls who helped teach me what friendship was all about in the pivotal years between playing make-believe in Bart's secret garden and learning the meaning of the phrase "fiscal responsibility."

There were others — many others, actually — but it will always be Amy, Ellen, Heidi, and Jody for whom I credit setting the standard to which all things that followed were held. I saw them as larger-than-life beings, mythic spirits prone to spontaneous group reenactments of "The Pink Ladies' Pledge" from Grease 2 just for the hell of it. Each brought something wonderful and vital to the table: Amy exuded raw beauty, imagination, and attitude unlike anything I've seen before or since; Ellen was our spiritual center — our sister, our muse; Heidi, with her child-like temperament and infectious smile, always knew how to make me laugh whenever I needed it most; and behind Jody's sinister puff of hair (rumored to contain great knowledge) existed the sweetest and most loyal friend for whom anyone could ever ask.

I can remember all of us piling into Amy's purple car at daybreak on a cool January morning and stopping for breakfast on the way to school, but not before belting out a few B-52's songs in perfect harmony along the way. I can remember square dancing for some reason inside the rickety old elevator at the J.C. Penney's where Heidi worked, never once thinking it anything but normal. I can remember introducing both Tara and Bart to my new friends, and simply loving it when we all had an occasion to be together. I can remember passing notes, skipping school, all-nighters, and knowing beyond any doubt that the simpler times we were sharing would stay with me every single day for the rest of my life.

And to think it all began inside the diner I was about to enter.

In my day, social activities in Coral Springs were limited to two things: visiting the neighboring town's only 24-hour grocery store in the dead of the night and trying to identify the mystery meat in their infamous deli, or hanging out at Wag's. And as tempting at the former option was, we more often than not chose Wag's.

Wag's was our Central Perk. Morning, noon, or night, you could always find a world of activity within its smoke-filled walls. Teens from across town frequented the popular dive that played home to Lollipop the Clown every Tuesday for their boisterous Family Night and the "The Sunshine Delight," a rather obvious facsimile of a rival restaurant's more familiar Grand Slam.

After connecting with Amy, Ellen, Heidi, and Jody in the late eighties, we would frequently hold court in Wag's until we either had enough of the smell or our money ran out, whichever came first, befriending a crowd of waitresses, cooks, and busboys along the way. To us and our fledgling identities, it was so much more than just a hangout specializing in serving greasy food to greasy teenagers; it was the one place in the world that allowed us to come out of our shells, to bond without parental oversight or fear of judgment … to be ourselves. It only felt natural that at least one of my reunions should be within its walls.

Unfortunately, however, Wag's no longer exists. Well, the structure does, now going by the more typical name of Denny's, but Wag's itself closed its doors to the world around the time I stopped hanging out there. Coincidence or cosmic apropos, you decide. In either case, it'll always be Wag's to me.

I have to admit to some trepidation about returning to the scene of such significance after what was indeed a lengthy absence. Not that I necessarily expected to know a single soul that currently dwelled within, but I couldn't help but feel a sense of haunting familiarity, as if I might hear Ellen leading us in song with her guitar from the booth in the back or see Amy and Heidi sharing a large glass of Diet Coke with two straws.

As I stood at the entrance and peered inside, gathering my nerve and feeling pangs of bittersweet joy sweep over me, I was suddenly fifteen years old again, big hair and goofy grin and about to create another memory that I would keep for the rest of my life.

To be continued...

Absent Friends, Chapter Seven: Tara and Missy

I awoke the following morning to the sounds of the Bart's relations scurrying about the kitchen, which was right outside my bedroom door. A fresh pot of coffee was on the burner and I was excited to begin the day.

As someone who revels in constantly having some source of electronic entertainment buzzing in the background whenever I'm at home, it's always a bit strange for me to be thrust into an environment where life revolves around life. But with the family stuck in transition from one home to another, there was a sort of imposed deprivation of all things modernly convenient: no TV, no computer, no connection to the outside world unless it was in printed form, variations of which existed in abundance throughout the house. Even so, where my childhood home echoed on any given day a zoo just before feeding time, Bart's home was always a world of tranquility and civility; then or now, intentional or not, it was really no different than how it always was, which made this eerie recreation all the more remarkable to me.

Following breakfast, I found my way, along with my notebook and surrogate pen in hand, to the backyard. I have vivid memories of playing for hours in Bart's backyard, reimagining it as some sort of clandestine wonderland that existed beyond time and space, accessible only through a secret passage within the large grandfather clock that sat beside the back door. It was a magical garden inhabited by talking trees, royal fowl, and a strange race of beings we called the Wigglesnorts. Day after day, hour after hour, we acted out stories made up as we went along, instilling within me that sense of marvel and mind I would carry over into my adult life. At some point during my visit, Penny commented on how creative we were as children, how in the days before computers and video games and everything instant and now we had no choice but to rely on our imaginations. I couldn't agree more.

We were indeed fortunate that our neighborhood had an abundance of children willing to play along with us during those special, early days. Among them was a sweet little blond girl named Tara. Tara is, without hyperbole, my oldest friend. She and I met in 1980, when I was six and she was four and our families lived in the same apartment complex a mile or so away from the homes we would eventually inhabit. Through serendipity, we both relocated to 31st Street and remained in each other's lives ever since.

While my house was several doors down from Bart's, Tara's was directly across the street, lending itself to a unique dynamic between my two friends. The three of us enjoyed a special friendship as we traversed adolescence together, and Bart and I watched her grow from a playful little girl with a love for ducks and dance into a stunning young woman with style and grace, currently expecting her second child. I have no doubt that it was knowing Tara in high school that made my social rating spike and propelled me into a world of moderate popularity that I may otherwise never have known. She was pretty, well-liked, full of life, and my dear friend.

Not uncommonly, Bart and Tara grew apart as they reached adulthood and their different priorities took shape. I maintained a connection to both, obviously, but the days of our adventures together ceased to exist, limited to the odd Christmas party or brief social gathering. There has always been a part of me that has mourned the loss of our trio.

I last saw Tara shortly before I moved to Atlanta, prior to her marriage, birth of her first child, and relocation to a town just outside Coral Springs. We continue to talk frequently via both email and phone, and I feel as if we have both made great efforts, despite our lives taking us in very different directions, to preserve the sanctity of a friendship that has lasted nearly thirty years. As such, seeing her during my trip home was definitely one of my priorities.

We decided to meet for lunch at the Coral Springs Olive Garden, yet another locale that, perhaps sadly, held some meaning for us. (We didn't have a whole lot to keep us occupied in Coral Springs, remember?) It was within those same faux Romanesque walls that Jen DeWhats-her-face earned the notorious reputation as "the monster with many mouths" for being able to consume seven sequential bowls of soup in one sitting; where Christi enraged the locals by fellating her first breadstick to the horror of her confused compatriots; and where Bart's cousin Hilary survived three grueling weeks as a waitress before being driven away by mobs of seniors indulging on unlimited salad for hours at a time without the consideration of leaving a proper gratuity. It seemed somewhat appropriate, then, to revisit such a sacred site during this pilgrimage.

I was delighted to learn that we were going to be joined by two additional guests: Bart's beloved A.J. and Tara's older sister Missy. Missy, like Tara, wore loveliness like a fine cashmere shawl. Growing up, she was the hip "older" kid on the block, the one who who always had an endless parade of suitors lining up and down the street just for a chance to walk her to the mailbox and back. But there was ever only one true love for Missy: her Mark, a man she courted for nearly twenty years before officially tying the knot several years back. If there's ever been a living example of a happy ending, it's Missy and Mark. And we're all of us better off for having experienced it through her.

As Bart, A.J., and I sat inside the hallowed walls of the infamous eatery awaiting Tara and Missy's arrival, I launched into a somewhat discomforting tale of one of Bart's more embarrassing indiscretions within these very walls years prior involving an unfortunate exchange overheard by a disgruntled waiter and ending with Bart refusing to eat anything that the waiter may have been able to taint beyond our view. Bart twitched uncomfortably in his seat while shooting me glances laden with worry, and I was silently reminded that there's always just a hint of unspoken concern that I may say something or tell a grisly tale of times past that would expose the Bart of yesteryear and cast him in a strange and different light in the eyes of his paramour. I usually operate precariously because of this knowledge and try my best to respect his boundaries, often with varying degrees of success. Yet I also know as well as he does that nothing I could say or do would shatter the obvious respect and admiration A.J. has for him.

That's yet another of Bart's special qualities: his loyalty. He sometimes humors, if not outright tolerates, my many idiosyncrasies and behaviors — such as the constant snapping of photographs or long tirades about how the world is most definitely out to get me — and I know it, even if he doesn't realize that I do. But it's within that very knowledge that exists the invaluable foundation of our everlasting friendship, a foundation built upon an unconditional acceptance of precisely who we are at our very cores.

Soon, Tara and Missy entered the restaurant and, for the first time in as long as I can remember, the trio of children that once played together every day after school reunited as adults. Tara was as sparkling as a glass of champagne, her golden blonde hair perfectly framing that sincere grin of hers that is forever etched in my mind ... still radiant, still charming, still Tara. Just being in the same room with her is enough to make even the most solemn among us smile. We caught up on years of lost time as we dined, taking pictures and recounting shared memories that somehow survived twenty-plus years, including Bart and Tara's ill-fated attempt as launching a "seeing-eye bunny" service and the time we rowed up the canal together in an old canoe while singing songs popularized by Fraggle Rock.

It was later, during a rather colorful retelling of the time Bart and Tara placed their respective pet rabbits in matching strollers and rolled them down the boulevard together hand-in-hand, that it occurred to me that maybe I hadn't completely imagined the bond the two of them shared independent of me, and that it truly meant something to the two people who, in more ways than one, now lived worlds apart. The idea that their lives could have taken such wildly different paths yet they still managed to somehow hold onto their intertwined past was what this trip was all about … continuity without regret.

The hours melted away like frost in the sun and it was soon time to part ways. I thought briefly about how it may be another ten years or more before we all have the opportunity to be together again, and for the first time in my life I was okay with that. I also couldn't help but wonder if Tara's son and daughter-to-be might one day know the magnificence of a friendship like the one their mother has with us.

To be continued...

Absent Friends, Chapter Six: Michelle and Josh

That evening, as another Thanksgiving faded to memory and the first streams of Christmas lights began to sparkle across the world, Bart and I would reunite with two of our dear friends, Michelle and Josh.

I met Michelle sometime between 1993 and 1994, when I was the assistant manager of the Waldenbooks store at Fort Lauderdale's Galleria Mall, and she was one of my employees. I would make a lot of friends during my years at that store — Christi, Douglas, Lynne, Ric and Francisco — but Michelle and I enjoyed a very special kinship, partly due to the fact that we were the same age and shared many of the same sensibilities.

It may've been Michelle who first taught me what it meant to be rebellious without having to be labeled as a rebel. I can recall her willingness to join me in whatever foolishness was the order of the day, be it one my compulsory sing-alongs or a day of shopping for that which we could not afford. Her hair may've been long and jet black one day and shaved the next, but it was never about trying to stand out or get attention ... it was her, pure and simple, and how a genuine spontaneity helped define a young woman who refused to be defined.

She was also fiercely committed to animal rights. It was with Michelle that I first declared my own vegetarianism, a noble gesture that lasted until I developed a wicked protein deficiency and near-fatal anemia. Had I known that vegetarians need more that just cheese doodles and beer to survive, I might've done a little better. But that's my fault, not hers.

You know, when you get right down to it, she was like a pleasant version of my friend Jen DeWhats-her-face, minus the henna and the cursing.

Josh is Michelle's husband. They met in 1999 and, during their courtship, he quickly became a member of our little group. I always liked Josh for many reasons, among them the fact that he was sexy, straight, and never once had a problem with embracing Michelle's gay friends. His openness and playfulness with me bordered on giddy flirtation, only without the risk of it ever leading to something unsavory. He always viewed me as a man, not a gay man, and therein lies the secret of our friendship.

I can't recall just how Bart came to know them, although it was no doubt by my urging. That was very much like how these things always played out when it came to our circle(s) of friends: I befriended someone, built a rapport, earned their trust, and then sprung Bart on them like some insane living version of that fake can of peanut brittle that shoots snakes out at you when you open it. If I was the opening act, it was Bart's larger-than-life persona that brought you to your feet for thunderous ovation.

In the ensuing years, Michelle and Josh visited Bart as often as they did me. In fact, his relationship with them may be one of the few instances where a friendship I precipitated continued on without me. I always felt a great sense of pride when that happened.

Michelle and Josh have been married for a number of years now and have two children together. Bart and I were both gone by the time their family came into being, so our memories of them are of two contemporaries in the early days of their relationship joining us for dinners and parties and frequent outings to the cinema. It's strange, in a way, that their lives now are consumed with doing right by their offspring; part of me wonders if we would've shared that same level of camaraderie had we known them later rather than sooner.

The last time I saw either of them was when, ironically, they came to Atlanta in 2003 to spend Thanksgiving with me. Bart was also there for that holiday, and it seemed that perhaps we might make a tradition of it. Now, five years later, we were finally making good on that idea.

It being Thanksgiving evening, our choice of venues for our brief reunion was somewhat limited. Fortunately, we discovered a 24-hour International House of Pancakes just off US1 in Pompano Beach that was open and, although not our first choice, it would serve its purpose. With their children left with a willing in-law, Michelle and Josh arrived only moments after we did, and within a matter of seconds the four of us were swept into a scene I had been craving for years.

We defaulted without pause to our previous selves, laughing and joking and making ribald comments you could only make with your closest friends. It was as if we instantly devolved backwards to the people we were before maturity grabbed hold of us and beat a sense of responsibility into our heads. Both Michelle and I had our cameras, of course, and we each snapped photos as we spoke alternatingly of the economy and times past, of business ventures and absent friends, of then and now.

During the conversation, we were surprised to discover that Michelle, Bart, and I all attended the same junior high school in the same year, effectively discovering something new about a person we believed we knew everything there was to know. How strange that our paths may have crossed years before we were ever to become friends and we never even knew it.

After feeling as if we may have outstayed our welcome, we continued our carousing outside the restaurant for quite a bit more until we all knew it was time to go. As we began the sad process of saying our goodbyes, amidst hugs and smiles but just short of tears, Michelle turned to me and said, "It's so wonderful to have friends like you, friends that you don't see for years at a time but, when you do, you can carry on just like no time has passed at all."

Her genuine words encircled me and I thought to myself how, before setting out on this journey, it may've never even crossed my mind that it could be any other way between us. And I guess that's exactly why I needed to see them … to be reminded of that possibility … to experience that sensation with people I love.

During the drive home, Bart and I reflected on our visit with Michelle and Josh, thinking how strange it might've been had their children seen their devoted parents as the playful duo we just left. We spoke further about our own lives and the paths we've taken, and I thanked him again for joining me on my journey.

"Which one?" he asked

"All of them."

We returned to the quiet house to find A.J. curled up on a sofa, entrenched in both a blanket and a book. I made certain he, too, knew of my appreciation and left the two of them alone together, retiring to the bedroom where I sat silently on the bed and reviewed the photos we had just taken. If only we had digital cameras back in the day, I thought. Not long ago, I lost a treasure trove of photos that cataloged a lifetime worth of memories, a consequence of yet another of my unfortunate transgressions. The pain still stings whenever I think about it, which is pretty often.

In fact, it was Marc who once suggested that, in the absence of photographic evidence, I should attempt to recreate my memories through written word. It was a daunting challenge, and one in which I was not sure I could face. Yet on this evening, feeling inspired and with my visit with Michelle and Josh still fresh on the brain, I grabbed my notebook and attempted to record some thoughts before they, too, dissipated like so much mist.

The end result, unfortunately, was little more than garbled lines of incoherent scribble that would assuredly cause concern for any outsider who happened upon them. But I knew that somewhere within my disjointed scrawl sat the framework for something of substance, parts of which will no doubt find their way into this story while most will remain a closely guarded secret between the notebook and its careworn keeper. Another form of medication-free therapy … my former therapist would be so proud.

It was late and I was tired. I still had two more days ahead of me and much more to do in that brief amount of time. I cleared my mind of sadness and guilt and said a silent goodnight to my friends and family, wherever they may be.

To be continued...

Absent Friends, Chapter Five: Continuity Without Regret

Exhausted from a long day of travel and a long night of screaming at a Madonna concert, I slept until late the following morning, conveniently missing having to participate in much of the Thanksgiving dinner preparation. It was probably for the best, I tried to convince my host family, as I've been known to set fires when fixing dry cereal. If this day was to be a splendiferous taste extravaganza, it would do everyone a world of good to keep me as far away from the kitchen as possible.

And a splendiferous taste extravaganza it was. Bart's parents, Penny and Joe, and his spitfire of a grandmother, the 83-year-old Doreen, joined Bart, A.J., and me as we sat around the family table and celebrated our unity. Two years earlier, I sat with this same group of people at Bart and A.J.'s wedding and was reminded of how, for as long as I can remember, I have always felt a part of this amazing family. I was also reminded of how I was barely nine years old the first time I sat with them in this same dining room. I think Penny was serving lamb and it may have been the first time in my life I showed signs of an inclination toward vegetarianism based on moral objection.

Following the feast, while the rest of the family indulged in a tryptophan-induced group coma, Bart and I decided to go for a walk through our old neighborhood. The weather on this Thursday in November was an unbelievable clear, breezy, and sunny … a perfect Florida autumn day.

Deeper and deeper down the rabbit hole we went as we revisited the canals where we once fed the ducks, the sidewalks where we once rode our bicycles in tandem, and the fields where I once pinned a dishtowel around my neck and forced Bart to be Lois Lane to my Superman. We saw old Mrs. Webber taking her trash to the curb and laughed at how we called her old Mrs. Webber twenty years ago. We marveled at the number of new buildings that populated our once quiet street, including a large Mormon church and an elementary school that all but brushed up against the edge of our backyards.

"It's different yet the same," he said, reading my mind.

"It's strange how the houses and buildings that once dwarfed us suddenly seem so insignificant in size and meaning."

"In size, perhaps," he corrected me, "but not so much in meaning."

By this point, we had found our way through the city park that rested several blocks to the south and were sitting on the edge of the playground we frequented when we were children. The ducks from a nearby lake immediately saw us and came running, expecting to be fed.

"So much like before," I said, gazing skyward with a glint of melancholy in my eye.

"You aren't going to start morbidly pondering the meaning of life again, are you?"

"Why else did we come here?" I asked.

"Touché."

We stayed in that one location for quite awhile, speaking much of the past but also much of the future. A theme that emerged during our conversation was one of achieving a sense of continuity without regret. As we understood it, it was about embracing your history while looking toward that which has yet to come. It was about finding new adventure on the road before you while not forgetting the roads you've already traveled. It was about moving on without ever having to let go.

It was easy to confide in Bart. Of all the people I have known in my lifetime, he is among the few whose benevolence truly knows no bounds. He possesses the invaluable ability to empathize and support, even when he disagrees wholeheartedly with the reasons or potential outcomes. To that end, he was courteous in his willingness to cart me around town to reconnect with people with whom he only had passing relations, which was not unlike how we operated during our late teens and early twenties. It was actually a relevant observation on my part, in that Bart always humored me in my mad desire to create a collective consciousness among my friends, despite his natural inclinations toward introversion. He always participated, smiled for the camera, and added that extra sense of permanence to every group gathering and event.

Continuity without regret.

As we walked back toward the house, he made mention of how much he missed reading my now-defunct online journal, regardless of his characteristic noninterest in such things.

"You and The Huffington Post," he smiled. "I never missed a day."

Whether he meant it or not, it was something that I really needed to hear.

Soon, as the sun began to set in the distance and the horizon became draped in a silhouette of crimson and gold, we found ourselves joined on our stroll by Penny and Doreen, who had awoken from their midday slumber and were now in the process of taking their eight-year-old Golden Retriever Emma for a walk. I've often said that, as someone who lost his last grandparent more than fifteen years ago, seeing Bart with his grandmother is a genuine treat for me. They share a love that I envy.

As the others headed back inside, I remained behind and walked up the road to the driveway of my old house, standing there alone as I looked fondly upon my childhood home before calling my parents and wishing them a happy Thanksgiving.

To be continued...