If you ever wonder what it is all those young men in their beards and flannel shirts and dirty jeans are hankering for, it is on display right here. Bliss.
Summer 1989
Well, Niall, what was that season? The season when we were open to a grand life-tide, tossing a football up Durant Avenue in the Berkeley winter late afternoon sun (which is better than the spring sun for most of the world) when that pretty 18-year-old beauty student of mine came walking down the same sidewalk. You had just tossed the old brick-red pigskin, and I was reaching up -- both arms stretched up and outward like a shit-ass brat begging for mamma's crotch and tit) -- but my eyes were slanted to her, to Melissa, making sure that she was looking on as I made the catch. And she was; and I made the catch. And then I pulled up and started to chat with her, and you came trotting up; and we -- Melissa and I -- proceeded to talk about that phone number of mine that I had included on her final paper along with her course grade; and she said that she had considered calling me but that she hadn't because she didn't know what to make of it; and then I assured her -- in your presence -- that everything was on the up-and-up and that she should call, and, better yet, that I would call her, if she would give me her phone number. And she did. Then you and I departed, returning to our pigskin-tossing jaunt up Durant destined for the post office. (You had to mail something pertaining to law school.)
Man, that was really a wonderful time. It meant a lot when you were living there with me, after I had my shindig with Maura. We'd toss the ball out on that stretch of university lawn by Oxford Avenue while the low Hawaii-bound sun scraped the top of our heads, shooting through our hair with its strawberry poptart fingers. Nothing can replace that time. And we spent it together: sleeping on the blue futon in the Berkeley morning; sharing a cup or two of coffee listening to Dylan or the Pogues; those good tasty meals in the evening (that were either made for us or by ourselves); but best of all: all those happy and vitally important social functions we hosted. I can see us now, smiling, the door knob in your hand and the door in an open position, a person walking through the door -- that person could be Craig, could be Mark, could be Eric, or Maura or Colin or some girl -- a background tune blanketing the air, the house already half full; and me, standing guileless and greeting, with a peanut-butter jar of Coors, at ease.
Listen, just make sure that you don't forget how close we are, and how much we've been through together, and what it is that we are to each other: like the times we'd go to the BANCROFT LOUNGE and dance in appreciation of the simplicity of our drunkenness; not to dance to be seen or to be powerful, just to be drunk and alone and with a heartfelt buddy. Thank you, man, for all and whatever we've done together; you're a true friend.
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