HUNTER-GATHERER

I played Jane Wyman’s role, I guess.

The email was a bit of a surprise. An old friend whose last 20 years of existence was largely a mystery to me, Robert and I briefly saw each other last Christmas when I was home in Detroit. Our meeting wasn’t planned and we literally bumped into each other while shopping. With his wife and son in tow, the conversation was brisk but heartfelt. The fact that we hadn’t seen each other for so long provided more subject matter than time allowed. As we said goodbye, we exchanged email addresses and vowed to connect again soon.

We met in college and quickly became thick as thieves. He was four years my senior and we had a number of mutual friends. Robert had developed a well deserved reputation for over indulgence and I was a college freshman looking for a bad influence. We smoked, drank coffee, played cards and argued about music instead of going to class. When the weekends came around, there was always a band in town or a party to attend with my new seasoned guide.
The summers would bring a slew of weddings in our community, with open bars and hotel parties lasting till the next morning. We watched the sun rise and talked about film, music, women and our desire to leave Detroit as soon as possible. For a while, we even dated sisters. The few double dates we went on were adventures in themselves with one particular evening culminating in the one and only experience I have had with a gunshot aimed in my direction.
I dreamed of becoming an actor and Robert was going to write. He chided me for my innocence which although justified at times, burned nonetheless. He had lived twice the life that I had and his insights were invaluable.

I was the first to leave town. At the time, Robert had slipped into a cocaine fueled abyss that few thought he would return from. When we had seen each other, he seemed distant and needlessly confrontational. He mocked my sincerity, and laughed when he thought he had unearthed an imagined vulnerability in me. Though his state saddened me, I never personalized any of his manic barbs.
He was, after all, a cocaine addict. The soul that currently inhabited his body was not the one that I had once counted as a trusted friend.
He left Detroit soon after I returned. I heard vague stories about his life in New York. Tales of a supposed new heroin addiction and more of the behavior that had marked the last year of our friendship. He was in fact writing, but his demons loomed much larger. When I asked his brothers to pass along my regards, they just nodded blankly.
Then came news of a move overseas for Robert. He had supposedly cleaned up, scored a writing gig abroad and married a woman he met in Europe. Further news came in years later about children and occasional visits back to Detroit. Although we were both back home for holidays, parties were now for a younger generations without kids and my relationship with my parents was one that had me seldom wanting to leave the comfort of my mother’s kitchen.

So when the email came in a month ago informing me of an impending visit, I truly relished the opportunity to catch up. We bounced a few notes back and forth confirming dates and times and I made sure to clear the weekend. He called after he arrived and we agreed to meet at a local Irish bar. Robert mentioned he was knackered from his flight and not sure how late he would last. He also mentioned that he would be bringing along another long-time friend, Jerry.
We arrived at the same time, but it soon became apparent that the two had started without me at another bar. Jerry, a gentle and affable sort, was still quite sober but Robert appeared to have taken full advantage of in-flight refreshment service and probably a well stocked mini-bar.
Immediately after being seated Robert starts chatting up the waitress in a language unique to drunks. This place is my local, so I hasten the ordering of food to avoid any possible future apologies and getting immediately cut off.
Before the food arrives Robert is in full rant mode and gesticulates wildly knocking over beers on the table. As Jerry and I scramble to right the fallen glasses Robert stares at the puddle of beer draining into his lap in resignation. I urge him to slide over to a dry area and he begrudgingly obliges. He is angry at himself now. He turns his back to us and Jerry and I start the conversation back up to deflect attention away from him. Slowly, he turns back around and engages himself again in the conversation. They both begin to talk at the same time, peppering me with open ended questions and neither allowing me to answer.
Robert starts giving the kind of advice that only people who have never worked in the music business can give.
“Why aren’t you producing somebody like ……….Amy Winehouse.” he asks in a challenging tone.
“Perhaps because I’m not a producer”, I reply.
“Doesn’t matter” he replies dismissively. “Problem is, you don’t think you’re good enough…….it’s all about the spin, man”

The food arrives and Robert’s beer consumption has slowed. He attacks his food with his fingers, eating much like a toddler in a high-chair. He grabs food off of Jerry’s plate. Then suddenly, as if he has forgotten about his beer, he snatches the glass and guzzles.
Jerry and I are solving America’s economic woes when Robert decides to engage the next table in conversation. A gang of kids swilling “Jaeger bombs”, they are a nice enough bunch. Robert is weaving around their table explaining how far he has journeyed in the last 24 hours just to be with his good friend as Jerry and I look at each other jokingly trying to determine who is actually the anointed one. Jerry decides to bow out. Citing a waiting wife and a drive back to Jersey, he drops his share of the tab on the table. Robert pleads with him to stay and drink. Robert then says that he should really go with him and then settles on walking Jerry out to a cab. I start speaking with one the kids at the table, a girl from Seattle, and we start swapping band and club stories about the womb of all things grunge. After a number of minutes Robert returns seemingly annoyed that the attention has been diverted from him. He splays himself over a bench at another table that has been reserved for a large group. After the waitress informs him that she will be needing the table, I ask him to rejoin us. He is still annoyed by something and he begins mocking me in front of the Jaeger-bomb set.
“You look old, man…..do you have any idea how old you look when you talk, man?”
“I dunno, how old do I look?” I reply with an eyeroll and continue speaking with the Seattle lass.
Robert sits in silence for a few minutes and then abruptly snatches Jerry’s cash off the table and mutters “I gotta go”.
As he starts walking away, I ask him “you leaving me with the tab?”
“Yeah” he replies and walks out the door.
I think he’s joking, but by the time I make it to the curb he is gone.

It’s Saturday night, 8:30 and still a little early to go home. I contemplate catching the Klitschko fight at a bar somewhere until I remember it’s on HBO.
I grab a six pack and head home to watch instead. As I start replaying the events of the evening, I realize that Robert and I had not talked about anything. He preached, and I indulged him. In addition, I would have been more than happy to spring for the tab, but being forced into it as he abruptly walked out on our “reunion” has left more than a little bitterness in me. I call his hotel room, but there is no answer. Falling asleep, I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt. Booze hits you twice as fast when you’re flying. This not how I want to remember him.
The following morning after a few attempts I finally reach him at his hotel. He asks me how I’m doing with a hint of apprehension. I frankly re-tell the tale of the night before. He half-heartedly apologizes and attempts to remind me that he had warned me about his lack of sleep and that he couldn’t be held responsible. He wants to pony up for his share of the tab. I tell him it’s not a big deal. We decide to meet for coffee near Penn Station as his train will not depart until mid-afternoon.

During my walk up to Penn Station he calls to say that he is at a bar on 33rd. It’s 11:00 am, and I presumed that breakfast or coffee was in the offing. He explains that he already had breakfast and felt like having a beer.
As I arrive at the bar, Robert appears to have set up shop early. A full Imperial pint and a double vodka on the rocks have taken up brief residence in front of him along with a crumpled bag of Krispy Kreme donuts. I order a coffee and Robert’s bleary-eyed hazing of my choice leads me to believe that he started drinking shortly after waking up. The vapor trail of yesterday’s bender emanating from him is being replaced with a fresh one. He is wearing the same clothes from the night before, complete with the beer soaked jeans and shoes.
“Man, I never drink anymore and I definitely never eat donuts……strictly vacation thing……….you know?”
He continues with a laugh, “Hey, I’d give you the cash from last night, but I don’t have any, maybe I can find an ATM”
I nod, but now I feel like a fool. I start to think about everything else I could have done this weekend. I start thinking about the great conversation we are not going to have. I start thinking about how many tabs I’ve picked up or extra money I’ve thrown in so that the waitress wouldn’t get stiffed. I start to think about how many times I have ended up on the ass end of a bad friendship. I start to remember what a dick Robert had become the last time I saw him in the 80’s. Suddenly, the hundred dollars he owes me seems like an asshole tax that begs to be levied.

Over the next few hours I make the best of it. We, and our families, go way back after all. We briefly share a few laughs, a few I-luv-u-man’s and recall tales now 25 years old.
He talks about a new job, the property he owns and some planned investments. He talks about the coming election in completely contradictory statements and rarely allows me to finish a sentence. The bag of Krispy Kreme is continually, forcibly offered, but I decline. He stuffs large hunks of them into his mouth but half of the donuts miss the mark and end up on the floor. He is now completely, unquestionably drunk. As the time of his train nears, he attempts to order yet another round and as the bartender tells him it’s time to go I remind him that his train leaves in 45 minutes.
As he shoulders his bags he realizes that he cannot carry them.
“You know, if you were good, you’d take one of these for me.”
I take the bigger of the two and we walk the block to Penn Station. He weaves in between the traffic of the sidewalk and asks me not to ditch him.
I assure him that I will get him to his train.

As we walk through the station I ask him if he wants to hit an ATM before he leaves.
He laughs knowingly and says, “nope”. I walk him to the next ATM.
For the better part of five minutes he fumbles through his wallet and then the menu on the screen. Finally, he throws up his hands and says,
“this thing does not work, man!”
I step in and ask him how much he wants to withdraw.
” I dunno, how much do you want, 100, 200?, I got plenty of money.”
“Just enough to cover your tab and the money that Jerry left, hundred bucks” I reply.
I hit the button for $200 as I have no idea how much money he has on him to cover a cab when he arrives, and count out five twenties in front of him. He shoves the remaining five in his hip pocket.
We go to the Amtrak kiosk and I print his boarding pass. He grabs the bag from me and struggles to right himself under the weight. He clenches the boarding pass in his teeth and and eventually saliva begins to stream off the end of it.

I start thinking about how airlines will not allow drunk passengers to board airplanes and wonder if we will be waiting for the next train if anybody catches a whiff or a weave of our traveler. Out of some sense of responsibility, I decide to stick around long enough to see him get on the train. We briefly stand in silence waiting for the track number to appear when suddenly he blurts,
“man, are you gonna give me break?”.
I take it as a not-so-subtle signal that he wants me to leave. We shake hands and say goodbye. I walk away. I don’t look back.