Traveling reflections 2: The man who was not Ray M.
One very pleasant evening of the trip was spent in Dorchester, outside of Boston, with an old friend and his wife. The night was a slow progression of food and drink out on their balcony, lined with willow sticks, trimmed with blue sky then a handful of stars, until the very small hours of the morning.
This friend is, among many other things, a wine enthusiast. And he is as generous in his enthusiasm as he is subtle in taste. We had a lot to drink, and it was good.
Less good, however, was the long ride the following afternoon to our next destination. I woke in rough shape. I couldn't feel my extremities, and only managed to thank my friend with a series of weak invocations and unsightly spasms. Had there been an iota of hydration left available in my body, I would have wept.
Instead I drove to Connecticut. Near the end of our journey, pulling into a pharmacy for supplies, I thought I recognized another friend, Ray M., going even further back. The guy was approaching his car and I was still in mine as I yelled "Ray!" at him through the passenger window. He looked around before getting into his car, so I yelled "Ray M.!" and pulled up next to him. He looked back through his window and I yelled my name. Opening his eyes wide, he got out of his car.
As I turned off the radio and got out of my car, he introduced himself to my traveling companion. By the time I was around the car, my traveling companion was inside shopping, and Ray was waiting for me.
"How long's it been?" he asked. "Ten years?"
"Must be," I said. But to hear him speak, it felt even longer.
He'd been on hard times. His car was a wreck, he had kids but no job, was recently married and couldn't afford his cigarettes. His voice even sounded different. The cadence troubled me, or the new intonation of mean struggle and failure. I asked about the rest of his family. He spoke of his mother, but didn't mention his brother or sister.
Still, he looked glad to talk, share what he could. We talked for almost five minutes. Five minutes is longer than two days when you're covering more than ten years. Then we shook hands, clasped arms, wished each other all the luck in the world, hoped it wouldn't be ten years until the next time.
And he wasn't the friend I thought I knew, I've no idea who he might have been.
This friend is, among many other things, a wine enthusiast. And he is as generous in his enthusiasm as he is subtle in taste. We had a lot to drink, and it was good.
Less good, however, was the long ride the following afternoon to our next destination. I woke in rough shape. I couldn't feel my extremities, and only managed to thank my friend with a series of weak invocations and unsightly spasms. Had there been an iota of hydration left available in my body, I would have wept.
Instead I drove to Connecticut. Near the end of our journey, pulling into a pharmacy for supplies, I thought I recognized another friend, Ray M., going even further back. The guy was approaching his car and I was still in mine as I yelled "Ray!" at him through the passenger window. He looked around before getting into his car, so I yelled "Ray M.!" and pulled up next to him. He looked back through his window and I yelled my name. Opening his eyes wide, he got out of his car.
As I turned off the radio and got out of my car, he introduced himself to my traveling companion. By the time I was around the car, my traveling companion was inside shopping, and Ray was waiting for me.
"How long's it been?" he asked. "Ten years?"
"Must be," I said. But to hear him speak, it felt even longer.
He'd been on hard times. His car was a wreck, he had kids but no job, was recently married and couldn't afford his cigarettes. His voice even sounded different. The cadence troubled me, or the new intonation of mean struggle and failure. I asked about the rest of his family. He spoke of his mother, but didn't mention his brother or sister.
Still, he looked glad to talk, share what he could. We talked for almost five minutes. Five minutes is longer than two days when you're covering more than ten years. Then we shook hands, clasped arms, wished each other all the luck in the world, hoped it wouldn't be ten years until the next time.
And he wasn't the friend I thought I knew, I've no idea who he might have been.
posted by General Bird at 22:41
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