When I take on a friend, it’s not something I do lightly: I’m in it for the long haul. That is why I chose to be absurdly unpopular and generally hated right up until about grade six (and then just mostly hated until grade twelve). It allowed me to be more selective later in life without starting friendships I would only abort later. It had nothing whatsoever to do with my regular attendance at band and choir rehearsals, and my magnetic attraction to books about dragons and unicorns. Star Trek conventions were definitely NOT a factor.
In 1988 I finally decided it was time to try and mix with my fellow humans in a manner that did not involve having sand thrown at my eyes or being tied to a tetherball pole. I initiated a rigorous search for a best friend, which ended with me meeting a girl named Christie with an unfortunate perm, a passionate love of yoghurt and iced tea, and a smokin’ hot intellect. The bonds of friendship were cemented, and from those humble beginnings, I’ve gone on to make friends with nearly six other people. Mother continues to be proud.
Eighty-eight was also the year I met Paul. Paul is the kind of guy who would have elective surgery to remove one of his kidneys so it could be transplanted into a sick puppy, only later realizing that his kidney is a human kidney and therefore completely useless to the dog. He’s just that giving. Half-Egyptian, half-Scottish, all fun, he’s a God-fearing man with a heart of gold. In our 15 years together, I have seen him conquer braces and fail to conquer girls, after which I published his angsty teen love poetry in my pretentious teen zine. Taking a flying swing at being cool, I once bleached the living daylights out of his hair and attached safety pins to his Docs and kilt. And after the hunt for cool had been abandoned, I helped pay for the police-uniformed stripper who cuffed him to a chair in the cafeteria at my residence and made him blow out lit matches on her nipples for his nineteenth birthday. We’ve bowled together, acted on stage together, engaged in ill-advised bouts of musical performance together, and I once made him a sock puppet girl for Valentine’s Day when we were both going through a rough patch with dating. Rising above all this, he lives his life with a dignified, quiet Paulitude, and I love him for it.
(Tragically, Paul’s eyelids have been closed ever since his older brother, Chris, crazy glued them shut as an April Fool’s Day prank in 1989)
(As my “good luck in school” gift, I throttled Paul until the pain of asphyxiation caused his eyes to pop open once again. He’ll thank me later.)
After many years of gambolling around, taking a lot of naps, submitting supremely late papers, and eking out a living designing websites, Paul has finally made a career choice. There was a dead heat between staying on as drummer for his band, ‘The Gardens Faithful’ and entering law school. The heat broke, and the call of evil won. ‘Twill be law. I went to see him off early this week at his goodbye and good riddance bash at Hernando’s Hideaway, only to have further close encounters of the high school kind.
Flame-haired Chrissy, a talented photographer with a keen eye for bad men, was in attendance. Infamous for once setting me up on the most disastrous blind date known to mankind, highlights of which involved Leonard Cohen, a mullet, glow-in-the-dark mini-golf, and an underage drinker marinating in red wine slumped over the backseat. She remains giggly and unrepentant about the whole ordeal, but since she’s become published and important, I guess I’ll forgive her.
Brave-hearted Sara, my co-champion in the Moose Scavenger Hunt debacle of 2001, saw Paul off as well. Having just returned from a seven day hike through the northern wilderness with her boyfriend, she looked a little bewildered at being back among the noise and lights of civilization. During an inspired, totally random photo shoot one lazy Sunday afternoon, I managed to talk her into changing out of my pleather corset dress into a wedding gown while standing at the intersection of Yonge and Bloor. I also persuaded the third, insane member of our photo shoot into wearing nothing but a big diaper, sucking his thumb and crying while lying in the foetal position on the steps of Toronto General Hospital, but if I DAre reVEal hiS idEntity, ceRtainly PAin will ensue.
A greasy Mexican good time was had by all, but I am deeply saddened by Paul’s imminent departure to London. After all that work finding them in the first place, I hate to see my circle of Toronto friends dwindle even by one. In support of Paul’s move to a more lucrative and soulless path in life, and in memory of our brief mutual flirtation with punk, I will chop my hair off and dye the spiky remains black on his leaving date, next Thursday.