From An Old Roommate

Hey Tom,

Been a while. Twenty-five years according to my calendar.

What can I say, meant to write but got busy? Screw it, I didn't write because after graduation I turned my back on everything having to do with college and took my life in a different direction. Right or wrong I did it, and two and half decades sailed by. So be it.

Now, out of the blue, here comes my ghost again.

No, I don't need money. No, I'm not dying. No, I'm not coming to town needing a place to stay. I'm writing because I want to write. I want to say hi. I want to let you know somewhere in this country right now there's an old college buddy thinking about you, for whatever that's worth.

So how are you, old pal ( can I still call you old pal)? What's 25 years of living done to you? Are you better for the wear? Are you still a little crazy, a little unpredictable, a little moody, a little dangerous? Did those chances you liked to take ever catch up with you?

They caught up with me. The drinking went from fun to less fun. My temper got a little worse. I hit my wife in an argument and did some time in the workhouse. I got divorced, but not because of the booze or the violence. I split with my bride five years after hanging up the drinking mug and four years after marriage counseling.

I never could apologize to her enough for that one pathetic night. She was satisfied with my apologies, but I never was. We had some good times after the counseling and the sobriety, but I got lost somewhere along the way, became a stranger to her, and to me. I got an apartment, became a loner, worked at a newspaper, but not with any passion. Almost went back to the bottle but was saved by an old nun in our neighborhood who made a little side job out of trying to turn me back into a human being.

I wish I would have run into you somewhere, Tommo. I stayed in the state for years after college before moving to Dallas. I'm not in Dallas any longer. I quit the paper two years ago and moved to Oregon. I'm in Portland right now working at a book store. I'm a little more of a human being these days but, truth be told, I'm still sort of an angry guy, angry at what happened to me, or what didn't happen, or at the whole picture and how different it ended up being from the original plan. Remember the plan? I was going to do investigative reporting and you were going to be my secret informant at City Hall. We were going to take down the big bosses and their cronies and then laugh about it all night over drinks at Sy's.

Sy died last fall, did you hear? I got a letter from his wife. It was leukemia. She sold the place to some dentists and they're converting the building into medical offices. Sad, sad, sad.

Do you ever see any of the boys from Sy's? Denny, Roy, Pauly? I heard Tucker  married Stephanie and they bought that bed and breakfast her mom was running. Tucker wrote me about five years ago and said he was fatter, Steph was fatter, their kids were morbidly obese, and the whole family couldn't be happier. That's Tucker for you. Don't think he's given up the bottle. Don't think Steph would allow it. He might stop napping and want to help around the house. She'd kill him.

Hey, this one-way street writing feels strange. I think I might be talking to myself here. Write me back and tell me I'm not. I know, you wrote often, and I never wrote back. Forgive me for that, I was a different guy back then, It's not that I disliked you, it's that I came to dislike myself when I was around you, when I was around everybody. That's not your fault, that's just how I was wired. I had a lot of competitive jealousy and was always a little too selfish for my own good (you can tell I've been to counseling).

Ah, it's late. I get up for work in four hours and I'm sleepy. Tommo, there aren't enough words or tears to pass along all I'd like to say in this letter. And if I don't hear from you I can live with that. But I wasn't going to go the rest of my life without fixing a few things that broke awhile back and patching a few leaks that sprang along the potholed road I've traveled.

You were a good friend, kid. I could have been better. But let's face it, I was young and a bit sloppy. I was never quite ready for the trap door we were shot out of on graduation day. I got a little dizzy. Took plenty of classes on journalism but forgot to take a class or two on life. Ah well, c'est la vie.

Hope the years have been good to you, hope you forgive me and write me back, hope you have a lover and a boat-load of kids, hope you made millions. If none of this has come to pass, drop a line and tell me your sob story. God knows I've told mine.

Until we meet again, by mail, by phone, or in person in the shadow of Sy's medical office building, I am, after all these years, still, your friend,

Rudy