Grown askew
A year later I got myself invited to a party of the old crew. I was just visiting in the city, but I knew they’d have a gig with an after-party and I tagged along just like in the old times. The parties were legendary, other-worldly experiences with friends and laughter. It was a picnic slash BBQ in a park. Doesn’t sound like much but I had high expectations — Exciting! Finally back with the crew! Except that it wasn’t exciting at all. I felt like I was observing them through backwards binoculars from a meter distance. As if all of them, my old friends, were cardboard cutouts, doing their moves as before, with the same running jokes as before, as if nothing had changed. Like watching a home movie from years past — they speak and have fun, but without interaction.
There was history, of course. This was my crew. I had been singing with them on the gigs, supporting the organization and I’d been the last person to leave the parties. Then I’d had to change jobs and relocate to another country. There was all that other drama as well, broken relationships, in plural, the unexpected death of a close friend and the good-bye party. You know, the whole story. So my departure was, in my mind, memorable.
Now suddenly I found myself in a new country with a new job, but alone, without a crew and without any friends. It was tough, yes, but I’m not one to lay down in pity. I worked my way upwards. Started over. I chose to live in full, like this was not just a temporary solution. I chose to redesign my life to a better version of myself.
I can’t claim that, a year later, I would have been a different man. I had grown into some better habits, yes, but the year felt like a battle. As a compromise, I was looking forward to going to that party, being my old self for just a day, just to relax an evening with my old crew, in my old life.
It’s just that the jokes weren’t funny anymore. I had grown, not necessarily to a better person, but to a different person. I suppose big life changes have that effect on you. The others hadn’t had such changes and hadn’t taken such leaps. What really got me, though, were the running gags. They are somehow the connecting tissue of friendships, developed over shared experiences. With every notable new experience we got new running jokes and the old ones were forgotten. Now, the old gags felt flat because I had experienced so much, so much out of which to draw new jokes. Still, the jokes were the same.
Years later, after my daughter had born, my first child, I had a vivid déjà vu. After two nights at the hospital, I returned home to prepare for the new family to come home for the first time. So I hopped down to the shopping center down the street, for groceries, physically exhausted but with steps bouncing on the clouds. In slow motion, I trotted at the mall with rushing crowds swooping by me. In my heightened level of awareness, I felt like screaming; Don’t you notice what has happened? Can’t you see that I have become a father to a beautiful daughter?! None turned to see, none to look at me, not even slowing down.
Life happens but no one takes notice. We look at our daughter, our eyes meet and we smile.
I still sometimes go to see the gigs of the old crew. Sitting in the back row now, I feel the warm glow of their friendship. I’ve even sometimes participated in the gigs and had an almost physical sensation of the bonds of friendship, where I know that if I‘d fall, they’d catch me. But it’s not the same anymore. The force is weaker now. They’ve had kids of their own. Their own happiness and drama. When our eyes meet with the old friends, we smile in silence. The love and understanding is still there, but the purpose is gone.
One day I want to take my daughter to a gig of theirs. “Daddy used to sing with them as well, they are all old friends of mine.” I can see her shrugging silently, and with sadness in my eyes, I smile and pat her on the back.
