Sweet sorrow

She doesn’t remember this, but I do.

 

It was 1994, and kids were still wearing neon socks. I was 12, she was 11, and though we attended different grade schools, we were both part of a program called SPARK, which was basically an advanced curriculum for so-called “gifted” students – boys and girls who exhibited an aptitude for scholastics and were expected to achieve some form of greatness. In my case, I squandered much of my advantage on writing short stories about flatulent vampires. She’d go on to fare a bit better.

 

SPARK kids from all the area schools got together toward the end of spring for a series of mock debates, though with summer imminent and middle school just over the horizon, there was a higher-than-average prevalence of doodling and booger-flinging; the best among us weren’t immune to the unique joys of an especially adhesive schnozberry. On the last day, two teams of debaters squared off against one another. I was a judge, which required all the mental acuity of an aardvark.

 

The first time we spoke was when she came over to enter her name in a logbook I was keeping of all the team members. I took a look at her as she approached. Glasses, check. Freckles, check. Pigtails, double-check. Clearly a nerd; clearly my people. I felt comfortable around her even before she opened her mouth.

 

“What’s your name?” I asked.

 

Her response: “Guess.”

 

I hate that game. The whole point of asking a question is to avoid the very act of guessing (said the snark); things could have started off badly between us, had I already completed my metamorphosis into a true-blue cynic. 

 

But they didn’t. After a pause to consider my response, I mimed writing in my notepad, and said, “Okay, let’s see. B ... I ... T ... C ... No, really, what’s your name?”

 

It was a gamble, because even though it was meant as a joke, she easily could have been offended. I wouldn’t have blamed her. Here I am, 12 years old, playfully bestowing upon her a mild swear word which would have earned me a good scolding had an adult overheard. 

Turns out we had a similar sense of humor. She giggled.

 

“Kristen,” she said.

 

It was the first time I ever heard her laugh. Twenty years later, it hasn’t gotten old.

 

The “Kristen” in question has orbited my life like a spectral comet via circumstances that are difficult to describe. The Reader’s Digest condensed version goes something like this: After moving on from the Lilliputian land of elementary school, we attended the same middle school, which is where her memory of the origins of our friendship start coming into focus. After that, high school. Then, weirdly, the same college, where we co-hosted a radio show that probably broke myriad FCC regulations governing cuss words and general decency. (We’re degenerates, she and I.) It was an unlikely journey which, considering the already long odds, should have ended there.

 

Only, here’s the coup de grace: She’s managing editor of the Journal Tribune. Yup. She’s that Kristen, and she’s sitting next to me right now, managing and editing simultaneously ’cause she’s a beast, and probably juggling a bunch of other stuff – angry phone calls, letters from whack jobs, things of that nature. Having her at my side has become as natural as beer burps and flossing, and decades of prolonged exposure to each other has allowed us to develop a shorthand that likely confuses and horrifies any unfortunate eavesdroppers. All to our mutual delight, I’m sure. We’ve got a bit of a sadistic streak.

 

Every train arrives at some sort of destination, though, and Kristen’s stop is coming up; she’s leaving the Journal for greener pastures, while I remain here to write columns about hiccup cures and bird poop. For once, we’ve got tickets to different places.

 

And I’m happy for her, of course. I’d be kind of a tool if I wasn’t. Thing is, I’m also a little afraid.

 

When you work at a place as long as I have, you see people come and go; it’s only natural. Hers won’t be the first departure that leaves me feeling melancholy, and likely won’t be the last. I’m not always the best at displaying the soft and gooshy side, but it’s there – a diamond buried in a lump of coal – and there are ex-coworkers I miss to this day, people I think of the way you think of distant relatives, separated from you by miles and time.

 

Except Kristen and I are a different animal. And “time” really is the operative word, isn’t it? No bonds are stronger than the ones forged by shared history. A million years ago and in another life, she and I would rap about the future – what we’d do, where we’d go. Back then, neither of us could have predicted that our courses would run so parallel to each other; it would have been a notion as farfetched as any hackneyed sitcom story arc, too contrived to be realistic. Yet here we are, riffing about cheesy heavy metal mascots, shoehorning our brand of absurdity into whatever gaps we’ve got left in this crazy business. That’s what I’ll miss the most: a constant tether to the random palaver which, exempting a few short breaks, we’ve never really gone without. 

 

Do you mind if I address her directly for a second? Yeah, I know, it’s rude. You’re a regular reader, you’ve come with me all this way, and now I’m gonna go soliloquize to my buddy. I’ll make it up to you in the form of vintage wines and various pies. Just sit tight. This’ll only take a minute.

 

Dude.

 

You know you’re leaving me in the lurch, right? Jerk. I’ve found myself wondering how many times in the coming weeks I’ll catch myself turning to your desk, itching to share my latest brain fart, only to find an empty chair. They say amputees are sometimes roused from sleep with the sensation that all of their limbs are intact; they wiggle nonexistent fingers and toes. It’s only upon waking from a dream that they’re reminded a part of them is gone.

 

So I guess this is where I’m supposed to offer you some parting advice. Here goes: Don’t stop and give rides to hitchhiking bridge trolls, always wear a helmet while riding a unicycle, and never cut the red wire when disarming a car bomb. And maybe bring the pigtails back. Those were a good look for you.

 

Oh, and I love you. There’s that, too.

 

There. I said it.

 

Now get outta here.