The Problem With Friends
“People are disappointing,” said Collin.
Collin had always been the friend you could go to for a small dose of petty pessimistic validation, but today I was hoping for Greg’s existential optimism…something of the buck up buttercup, tomorrow’s another day variety. But Greg canceled on me. Again.
“That’s what happens when people have kids, man,” Collin says as he cracks open another beer. “Want one?”
Nevermind that it’s 10am, I haven’t had a drink for 11 years and Collin should damn well know that by now.
“Nah man, I’m good.”
I’m more pissed at Greg than Collin, but it’s neither of their faults that I’m unhappy — I’m more angry with myself for not having better friends, or for not being happier.
I look down at a small grease stain that’s taken residence on Collin’s baby shit beige carpet and listen to the sound of the blue recycling truck I saw on my way in. Beeps and hydraulics overturn a dumpster full of people’s barely collapsed/used Amazon boxes, loose sheets of coupon mailers catching the wind, and the high-pitched percussion of beer bottles, all on their meaningless journey into nothingness, which coincidentally reflects my current opinion of Collin…and by association, myself.
As far as Greg, I don’t know if I’m more jealous of his kids for getting his undivided attention on a daily basis, or of him, for the unconditional love they provide between screaming fits.
“Speaking of disappointment, did you catch the 32 point loss by the Knicks Sunday?” Collin asks.
“Actually, I just miss the days when the feeling of belonging was a given, not some novelty where I have to ‘practice’ gratitude when it’s around and be the Marcus-fucking-Aurelius poster child for radical acceptance when it’s not. Now we’re all just recycled goods no country wants to buy.”
I think it but I don’t say it. No, that’s a Greg conversation.
Collin takes another swig of beer and opens the fridge. “How about some orange juice?” he tries, “it’s the low acid kind.”
“Sure man, that’d be great.”
