Fred

I have not blogged in quite a while; the spirit that drives the inspiration to talk about one’s thoughts and experiences has been side railed by pragmatisms of an economic nature.

But today I had lunch with an old friend’s son, and the experience of talking with him about his father rekindled memories that encourage me to talk about Fred and his passing.

Yes, Jay’s father died about 12 years ago and I had known him for about 30 years at that time. He was far brighter than me, and I have always been drawn to highly intelligent people not only because I learn something from them but because they usually understand both what you are saying and also what you are trying to say.

I could talk to Fred about episodes in my life and he would often – much like an psychoanalyst – rephrase and reframe what I had said into a summary that allowed me to make sense of my chaotic and riotous blathering. He was a good listener. But he would not sully a good observation with advice. We both hated unsolicited advice. Assholes do that.

My relationship with Fred lasted a long time in part because we both listened to each other; I mean really listened – not to judge or recant some pseudo-moralistic pronouncement or condescendingly postured pithy wisdom – but to share the experience and understand the experience and empathize about the experience.

Both of us had worked in psychiatry and in the mental health field, and we understood counseling and facilitating and how listening was used as an essential tool in the helping professions. But, we were both sensitive to and cynical about the supercilious use of counseling tactics frequently evidenced by the practitioners we had exposure to.

Neither of us could tolerate the posturing arrogance of superficial people posing as psychiatric professionals. Most sentient beings can read body language and sense underlying intentions in those affecting some practiced presentations of declarative sentences – the object of which seems to be controlling the perceptions of others.

Good friends don’t have to do that because their friendship is based on a few basic precepts that define it. With Fred and I it was. . .

I know who you are, what you’ve done, your values, your shortcomings and strengths; I know where all the bodies are buried and I accept all this.

I don’t give a shit what you do – murder, theft, philandering, whatever – and I will be your friend in spite of your indiscretions.

You have my support; I have your back.

You never have to lie to me; lying is for strangers and acquaintances and everybody else in the world who wants to manage you, influence you, or judge you or change you. I like you the way you are.

Before you blow your brains out, you have to get my approval because I ain’t going to take it well that I have to stay in the surrealistic, unimaginably irrational hellhole by myself.

Fred contracted cancer without my permission and subsequently had a good excuse to leave, but I was never cool with it and he knew that. So I would visit and sit with him during the last few months; we would go to old haunts and drink beer and smoke a cigarette and look around and say something and watch people and traffic.

We would sit quietly – feeling no need to say what we were thinking because we knew each other well enough to know what each of us was thinking about what was happening and how we felt about it. We knew that after the first death there is no other; we knew the magnitude of infinite darkness and accepted the reality of endless sleep and cosmic dust.

The anesthetism of philosophical claptrap and existential persiflage in the face of one’s imminent demise is . . . well. . . imminent. So the bullshit stops and you fight reality with companionable silence. You want current experience and real time reality to be pleasant; negative talk has no place. So you drink beer and smoke a cigarette and watch people and say something funny about something strange that you just saw and your time together is pleasant.

Fred died like a man; he never whined or complained and I was never patronizingly helpful or sympathetic. That is all negative stuff and it leads nowhere and he knew it and so did I so we drank beer and smoked a cigarette and watched people. He showed strength in passing that I admired at the time; I kept thinking how I might be working the crowd for sympathy or using my situation to manipulate people in some way; I mean, you have tons of leverage that you can use.

Thankfully, I still have a male friend with whom I have a similar relationship and so I am not left completely defenseless against the interpersonal superficiality that haunts male friendships. If I told Will that I murdered someone today, he would probably say – “What did he do to piss you off?” Or, “I hope you did it in a way so that you ain’t gonna get caught.” And that would be that.

I still remember Fred; he would like being remembered. If he were watching me now and reading this, he would just smile. He would not say something bullshitty like, “Gee, that’s great man; thanks for all the good stuff.” Fred was not an asshole. We both hated assholes. He would just smile.

When people were talking bullshit and holding forth and epitomizing assholishness with their behavior in our presence, Fred and I would just look at each other and start giggling. We knew what each other were thinking which was- “What and asshole!” Damn I miss that kind of rapport.