“I never had any friends later on like the ones I had when I was twelve. Jesus, did you?”
― Stephen King, The Body
As a kid, I lived in a rural neighborhood a few miles outside of our town proper. I spent most of my childhood there—first with my grandparents after most schooldays while my parents worked, and then when my parents, my brother, and I moved into a house down the street from my grandparents’ old one. Over all those years, I made the best bunch of friends I’ve ever had.
Like most groups of young friends, our relationships ran the full gamut, from genuine romantic love and deep loyalty to fistfights, breakups, gossip, and pretty much any other assholish behavior you can imagine. And yet, no matter what petty crap splintered us on any given day, we always gravitated back to each other. In one of my ongoing projects, I’m writing a series of essays about us. One has been published. A couple of others are in progress; more currently idle in the “here’s an idea to write about” gear, their engines thrumming with the energy of the untold. To get a sense of our closeness and our escapades, you might want to check out this piece. Go ahead. I’ll wait.
If you’re still with me, I should confess that, when I write nonfiction about people I know, I usually change their names. These people have families that might not want to read about their parents’ misspent youth. The girls in the above essay, who have been women now for a long time, figure prominently in today’s piece. Though every member of our neighborhood gang always seemed equally valued, excepting those melodramatic moments when we fought or argued, many of my most vivid memories from that time involve Kelly, Heather, and a couple of guys simply because we lived really close to each other. We never had to seek each other out. Walk outside of my house, and there stood Kelly. Amble down to my friend Gene’s place, and you might find Heather and Kelly in his yard.
I have revealed in other writings that I have long felt at odds with the world, out of place, without a tribe. My point here is to tell you that if I’ve ever truly felt like I belonged with a decent-sized group, it was with the kids of Rolling Acres outside Crossett, Arkansas. Now long removed from any romantic entanglements with any of them, I don’t feel the least bit weird in telling you that I still consider them all family. Even the ones who grew up and devoted themselves to the Far Right. Even the Second-Amendment-torturing gun-lovers. I would do just about anything for those people. And I know—know—that at least some of them would still do just about anything for me, including overlooking my unapologetically loud Left-wing mouth.
But still.
Ever since I moved out of that neighborhood when I got married the first time (that would be the summer before my senior year) and gradually began to lose touch with my friends, I have never felt at home in the world. I don’t belong among artists, because I feel like nobody reads/shares/likes my work, and when I go to AWP, I often have to search far and wide for someone who cares enough to say hi. No one offers a recommendation to their editor or agent. No one tells me how much they loved my piece in Journal X and how they’d like me to submit something to their publication. I don’t say this in a self-pitying way, though I know that’s how it sounds. I say it as an observation I’ve made about my own life. Despite my publications and online presence, most writers/editors/agents/readers don’t think about me.
I don’t feel at home among my extended family. My positionality as a pansexual, non-traditional Christian Leftist means I have little in common with most of them. I also don’t hunt or fish, and my college football loyalty lies with LSU, not the Arkansas Razorbacks, given that I actually went to and graduated from LSU. These are only a few reasons I am an outlier from my family—whom, I should clarify, I still love very much and who still love me.
I don’t feel at home among large groups of academics, as I have little patience for the politics of the academy, or its bureaucracy, or how some members always believe they are one hundred percent right all the time. I greatly value my academic friends, but I have no desire to attend MLA or write an article that will be trashed by a peacocking, territorial assclown.
Plus, I’m an introvert, meaning, in part, that I value my alone time. That may mean that I am literally alone, writing in my office, or that I’m home with my wife and kids and pets, or that I’m at an intimate gathering of a very few friends. It may mean I’m an anonymous part of an enormous crowd, doing wild shit that I probably shouldn’t do anymore. I am perfectly at home in big cities, in downtown Las Vegas, on the Strip, in the French Quarter at one AM on a Saturday night. I would be perfectly at home in Times Square, alone or in a small group. Just don’t stick me at a cocktail party and ask me to chit-chat. I don’t know how.
In short, except with my immediate family and a handful of friends, I feel alone, isolated, marginalized most of the time. Even when it’s just a matter of my depression and anxiety causing my perceptions to misfire, it still feels real. And so I look back fondly at that time of my life when I was one of a couple dozen kids who are close enough to feel like family after thirty-plus years apart.
My depression and anxiety whisper in my ear a lot, even when I’m asleep. Sometimes they tell me that my second family, the one I chose all those years ago, doesn’t want me, either. Hence the dream.
It happened around a week from the time of this writing, bleeding out of another dream I don’t remember and into another I would also later forget. But this one—it stuck with me. It hurt. It still does, even though it was only a dream.
In it, I traveled back to Crossett for some kind of reunion. My wife, Kalene, came with me, as did my son, Brendan, and my younger daughter, Maya. We rode into town with my Mom and Dad, the latter of whom was driving, even though we rode in a muscle car I had rented at the airport—a Winchesters-worthy Impala, an old Challenger, something like that. It was black, with black interior. It should not have been large enough to seat six people comfortably and hold all our luggage, but such is the logic of dreams.
After we piled our bags onto the ground, I shut the trunk.
“Where are the keys?” my Dad asked.
I patted myself down. “I don’t have them. Didn’t you take them out of the ignition?”
“Yeah, but I handed them to you.”
We turned to the car. Somehow—the logic of dreams—we could see into the shut trunk, and there lay the keys.
My father turned to me and scowled. “Great.”
“But I didn’t do it.”
“You never take responsibility for anything.”
That stung. I take pride in my responsibility. I am not, by nature, responsible. I have had to work at it, for my wife’s and kids’ sake, for self-preservation. Same with discipline, not rebelling against every kind of authority all the time, keeping my temper. It was like he said one of the most hurtful, untrue things he could imagine, this dream version of my Dad.
He called a locksmith. Apparently, he had fastened his housekey onto the rental’s ring, and so we were doubly locked out.
“I guess I’m sorry,” I said, still hurt.
He hung up. “They’re on their way. It’s going to cost seven hundred dollars.”
“What? Why that much?”
“Because that’s what it costs. You don’t get to decide everything.”
“Look, I’ll just put it on my credit card, okay? You don’t have to pay a cent.”
“That fixes everything, right?”
I didn’t know what he meant. Dad and Mom stalked off, leaving our bags beside the car.
The neighborhood we returned to was not the one I grew up in—or, rather, it was, but a dream version, where our square-shaped rural geography had morphed into an inside-town geometric grid of streets and cross-streets, much smaller squares and rectangles, houses with yards governed by HOAs.
My parents, our bags, Kalene, and Maya disappeared from the dream. My son had wandered off somewhere when the reunion party started at a nearby restaurant with a large outdoor space, round tables and straightback chairs and porch swings hanging from the building’s outcropped roof. I recognized almost no one.
Whose reunion is this? I wondered. Why am I here? Who invited me?
And then I saw Kelly.
If you followed the link above, you know that she was my sometime-girlfriend, the first human being I felt a kind of romantic love for. Maybe the first person I ever truly loved, period. In real life, she is now married, and when I saw her in my dream, the joy swelling in my heart had nothing to do with two kids’ past relationship. It was just seeing her, my old friend. For the first time since arriving, I felt at home.
I had been drinking. I don’t know what, or where it came from, just that I always had a highball glass in my hand. Knowing me, it was Jack Daniels and Coke or straight Jameson. Ice cube clinked against each other. I can still feel the glass’s cold roundness in my waking hand.
Kelly was drunk, too. Some kind of music played at high volume, and people danced, and when Kelly stumbled, four guys caught her so that she lay in their arms as if in a human hammock. It seemed choreographed. She saw me as the men began to spin, twirling her. She smiled.
I walked to them and held out my hand. As she spun by me, she held out hers, and our fingers brushed each other. Over the music, the crowd said, “Awwwwww.”
Then I was sitting in one of the swings, next to Heather, who patted me on the knee and said, “Good to see you.” Then, drink in hand, she turned to someone standing near the swing and started a conversation. I sat there for a long time, only inches from my good friend of thirty-something years, but we never spoke again. Soon, she was gone.
So was everyone else. It was daylight, and the street was empty. No one worked in their yard. A party might never have occurred, or else someone had cleaned the area until it was unnaturally pristine. I could only see one person—my son, who sat at one of the restaurant’s tables, eating a sandwich and looking at the still houses. The sun shone on him, bathing him in sparkling light, as if God had put a finger on his shoulder. Love and loneliness swelled within me in equal measure, my chest nearly bursting under their pressure, as when you hold your breath too long.
I got up and went to Brendan’s table. I sat across from him and watched him eat. Nothing around us made a sound.
Finally, he said, “So. How was the reunion?”
I gestured, taking in the empty restaurant, the uniform yards, the still houses.
“These are my friends,” I said. “This is my family.”
“Huh,” he said.
And then I woke up.
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