Memoir

My Closest Friend

My closest friend from long ago — a man whom I loved, a man who had the lithest body, the prettiest smile, and the most disarming sense of humor — appears from time to time on the screen. A photo of his dog, an image of Weimar art: Max Beckman, George Grosz, or a quote from Karl Marx. There’s more. I can’t fully replicate his aesthetic it is that much his own. He would tell the longest shaggy dog stories that would elicit groans from around the barroom table. I would eventually encourage him to stand up and dance with me in the bar, even if it was just the two of us, two men, because back then I was one too. We had sex once in a hot tub. We took LSD together several times. I especially remember a time we tripped at night, walked through town and down to the boardwalk at 3am, gawking at the rides all battened down and folded upon themselves like long-abandoned spider exoskeletons. And somehow, we got separated. I became frightened and ran all the way back to my SRO at the Hotel St. George because, in my profoundly altered state, I thought that I was dying, or had already died a long time ago alone in the mountains. I went to my room, peed for some psychedelic reason on my houseplant, and sat down on my bed. I picked up my guitar, played a bit of quiet slide. At one point I looked up and he was there, had come to my room and stood before me. I smiled at him and said “Hi” like none of it had ever happened. I still see him sometimes — not him, but these small visual representations of his mind on the screen — and I like them, and I “like” them.