Ten-Hut!
Note: All names have been changed to prevent any and all conflict this essay could create.
It was December. My son had been gone since October and “Masket” was the seventh friend to visit me in three months. They’d all come because my ex-wife had failed to return from Thailand with our son, so they wanted to cheer me up from whatever the word is for what you feel when you see no point in living, but also don’t even have the energy to do anything about it.
These were pity trips, but they were effective! I was dying inside, licking wounds I’d never predicted, the most nefarious of which was my ego telling me, “You deserve this.” But thanks to friends like these, that voice never got loud enough to destroy me.
However, I wasn’t thinking about that when Masket, my friend-since-childhood, agreed to come with me to meet Stan, a new, local friend, at a cigar bar so we could sip scotch and smoke cigarettes indoors.
I’d known Masket for 20 years. She was one of six Erin/Aarons from my high school group of ten, which explains why we gave all of them nicknames—a detail that confuses other friends when I talk about her before they meet her. It turns out most people assume adults with nicknames are men. But that’s the price you pay when you hang out with old friends. You’re beholden to nicknames and dumb jokes, and Masket was no exception. But it could have been worse. Thanks to her well-endowed chest, her other nickname was “pamplemousse,“ which is French for grapefruit.
Meanwhile, while I’m sure Stan wanted to meet Masket, the real purpose of this outing was to introduce me to his friend Randy, a former Army Ranger, who said he’d heard about “my situation,” and wanted to help. But if I’d had an inkling of what he would say, I never would have gone, let alone brought one of my oldest friends along.
But I was naive, and running out of hope, so I was eager to see if there was a solution I hadn’t heard of. I’d already tried all legal options, and thanks to my careers in restaurants and education, I couldn’t afford other “softly legal” avenues like “donating” $250,000 to a congress-person or $1,000,000 to a senator to “get their ear.”
I was also running out of money thanks to the fees for a local lawyer, Thai lawyer, and an international attorney specializing in assisting lawyers in the tedious protocols of the 1980 Hague Convention on the Civil Aspects of International Child Abduction.
Time was running out, so it wasn’t lost on me as we entered the dim, smokey cigar bar that if this guy did have a viable plan, this was the perfect time to change course.
A night owl, Masket was more excited than me, an early bird, as we drove to the bar. My high school nickname was “Old Man Oppenheim,” a title I’d earned from an impressive streak of leaving parties to go to bed by nine, and I’d only gotten worse. By this age, it was more like eight. College kids start pre-gaming when I put on my PJs.
Randy and Stan arrived at the same time we did and when I saw Randy, I was put in my place. Stan had told me he was my same age (36 at the time) but whereas I looked like a Dad-bod model, this guy looked like he could do twenty one-armed pushups without breaking a sweat. If you were casting a thirty-something for the role of “wealthy former Army Ranger living in Scottsdale,” he was perfect.
Randy shook my hand exactly how you’d expect a man with his background to, so I did my best to pretend it didn’t hurt and his kind smile assuaged my “I’m softie shame.”
We sat, ordered drinks, and Masket and I wasted no time lighting up, as we were both from California, a state that had banned indoor-smoking when were kids.
Randy also smoked, and as a further credit to his casting call, he even pinched and hurriedly hit his cigarette like a man who’d seen (and done) things I don’t want to know about. But he was likeable. He was handsome, friendly, and patient as we made our introductions. But also, just beneath that, was a “just the facts” vibe lurking in his jittery eyes, as if wary of an impending IED.
I’d like to imagine I’m embellishing, but Masket has confirmed this same sentiment every time we’ve reflected on this evening. And based on what happened next, I’m sure you’ll understand why we still marvel at this event every time we see each other.
This week on Coffin Talk: Nicole Schmidt is the author of With Love, Nicole, a memoir about caregiving, anticipatory grief, and life after the loss of her husband. She also runs a grief resource center, Heartfelt Haven, where she explores the emotional and spiritual complexities of loving someone through terminal illness. LISTEN HERE.
