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| | Dinner With FriendsEvery few weeks, for as long as we've been able to drive, me and my
friends have gotten together for dinner. The same group of seven or
eight of us has been as tight as can be since junior high, so getting
us all together is like a big family reunion. Over the years, though,
careers, moves, spouses, and kids have all made our little get
togethers and interesting and constantly changing dynamic.
During the post college years (AKA: The years Mike's mom was extremely
disappointed that her son wouldn't just grow up already), my friends
and I would meet for dinner quite often. Massive consumption of
alcohol was usually a key ingredient to the evening's recipe for fun.
Some of us still lived at home, a few were still finishing up school,
and unbelievably, a couple of us had entered the world of adulthood -
holding down jobs and managing grown up relationships. Me, I was
desperately holding onto whatever it is that comes between childhood and
adulthood. I was changing majors and dropping classes, doing anything
to remain firmly entrenched in the lackofresponsibilityhood phase I so
enjoyed during my six years of college.
During this period of our lives. the gatherings often took place at
local drinking establishments and were centered more on the liquid
portion of the meal than the assortment of hot wings, nachos, and bowls
of potentially contaminated peanuts and popcorn (seriously, have people
just forgotten the concept of washing their hands after they pee?). I
distinctly recall spirited contests where we'd bet to see who would
"accidently" throw a dart across the bar the wrong direction. I
remember Tim picking a fight because he felt a fellow bar patron simply
"looked like an a-hole." Sadly, my memory banks hold more than one
instance where one of us wound up urinated on by other members of the
group.
These years brought a few changes among our ranks. Jerry and his long
time girlfriend moved across the country. Tom, having been away at
school for a few years, returned with news that he'd be getting
married. That set the ball rolling, things were destined to be
different.
As my pals slowly became gainfully employed, and I continued to be a
disappointment to my mother with my string of bartending and table
waiting jobs, the establishments we met in became a little more
upscale. Now, keep in mind that I'm talking about upscale for the
likes of us. This was no dinner at the Ritz, this was moving from the
local bar that smelled like a backed up toilet in the summer time
because of the sewage treatment plant across the way to the "fine
dining" of Chili's. (Hey, any place that serves their food on a
scalding hot plate that could be used as a weapon in the prison yard
screams class to me). Often times my friends nights out would be to
the restaurant I happened to be working at at the time. I had this
twisted notion in my head that I was destined to be a writer, so I refused to get a "real job," claiming the lousy pay and crap work will keep me hungry. It did, but not the kind of hungry I had been talking about. What
exactly I was writing or hoping to do with that writing was moot, I was
a writer simply because I had declared myself one. Living in a house
with four friends (one from our little gang), I made most of my income
from selling cups at the front door as people entered our parties. The
parties were frequent, and lucrative, but did little to advance my
"writing career," in fact, I spent far more time searching for aspirins
and wondering where in the holy hell I was (seriously, I once got lost
in my own dining room) than I did writing anything.
A great deal of those years are a complete blur, but I know it was
during this time that Stan moved away. He'd declared bankruptcy,
broken up with his fiance (during a fight in which all of us were
present for), and decided to stay with his parents for a while and
straighten out his life. Tim, going the opposite direction in his
life, got married and bought a house.
Jeff and I had had enough. Stuck in a lease at that party house, we
couldn't seem to separate ourselves from the drinking and partying that
was going on around us. We needed a fresh start. There was a long,
slow roadtrip to LA. California was the perfect place to start over.
My sister and her new husband, who had been absorbed into our
fellowship over the years, didn't want me to go. She scoured the
papers looking for jobs, careers really, for me. I wasn't having any
of it. I needed to get away. One Halloween, we had our "last
supper." The whole gang got together to wish me and Jeff farewell.
Jeff made his announcement. He wasn't going. His mom, afraid of
losing her baby, had bribed him with a big screen TV.
California rent prices and the new found lack of a roommate led me to
delay my migration west. While sticking it out, I found a new job.
This one was supposed to be a career. It was supposed to be an entry
level to adulthood position. It wasn't. It was a pyramid scheme. A
cult really, and I'd found myself suckered. The helplessness I felt,
the lack of direction, the feeling of being lost, those all helped this
"sales cult" suck me in. I peddled their crap, I preyed on the young
and foolish who came through the door looking for an opportunity too,
and I bought into it all.
While I was off drinking the Kool-Aid, pretty much living in the movie
"Boiler Room," more and more of my buddies were getting married. The
influx of female taste buds into the group had us suddenly meeting at
classy places for our dinners. By classy, I mean, of course, having
tablecloths and all the stalls in the bathroom actually contain a
toilet. Having been one of the last of my friends hanging onto the
single life I felt like an extra wheel when we went out, and even though I had a degree, having an income just a
notch or so above homeless crack addicts didn't help me keep up with the money my pals would spend on dinner. I started to lose out on
quality time with my pals, but most of that was by choice, because the job. As smart
as they were, they had group outings, trips to the bar, Saturday "optional"
days at work, and Sunday softball games in the park. They encouraged you to move into apartments with co-workers to save long commuting hours. They tried to
steal away as much as your time as possible, making an effort to keep
you away from friends and family that might just point out, "Hey,
you're in a brainwashing sales cult." Not that you would have believed
them anyway, you were so far gone that you'd turn on long time friends
to defend the job. I missed our regular outings for over a year
because I was so brainwashed.
Completely unrelated to the job, I met my wife during that time. She
knew what time it was. She saw the writing on the wall. Initially,
she was enamored by the promises the company had made, the riches they
assured were just around the corner, but realized that it was a scam.
And, you know how she saved me? We went to my sister's wedding and she
met my friends. She saw immediately the bond we had and wondered why we
never hung out anymore. She made me go every Saturday and Sunday to
have dinner with them. She, in a sneaky way that the cult people would
have loved, showed my who was really important in my life. Initially, I was wary. Having been away from my friends so long, and having talked up this great job so much, I was embarrassed.
She helped
me see the light, even if that light was Mama's boy Jeff, slightly
demented Tim, and a rapidly balding John, the light was people who
cared about me, not the dollar signs I passed up the pyramid. She reminded me that we'd stood by eachother. We, as a group, had known eachother foever. The guys helped Stan, gave him a place to live when his fiance kicked him out. They were always there for Tim, through all the employment problems. We were there for Tom when his marriage fell apart and his wife moved out, and we were there to celebrate the day she moved back in. Everyone was there for Jeff when he dealt with his health problems, like a yo-yo going in and out of the hospital, his friends were by his side. We'd always been there for eachother. I'd always been there for them, my soon to be wife pointed out, that's how friend ship works. She was right. I got a little razzing for being brainwashed, but within a few minutes it was like old times again.
Now, having escaped the "cult" almost seven years ago, I'm happily
married and after a brief return to school, gainfully employed myself.
Most of the boys are now married too, (Jeff is still holding out for
Jessica Alba to come to her senses and move to the Chicago suburbs),
and almost all of us have kids, but we still have our dinners. Just
this Saturday we all went out, all of us. And yes, the dynamic has
changed again. Gone are the fancy restaurants with their fine china,
white table cloths, and working toilets, we now chose to frequent
family friendly joints where the kids can run and play and we can sit
and relax, telling all the old stories, reliving the good times, and
making new memories every day. Just as long as the new memories don't
involve anyone peeing on anyone else, I'm good. | | | Posted 7/18/2007 12:23 PM - 6 comments
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