You! Yeah!
“You! Yeah! Best buds!” Thumbs pointed, I sat there with my father – some 18 or so years ago – in the passenger seat of his never-faithful Suzuki whatever-it-was.
“Dad, how come we’re best buds?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, didja save my life or something?”
“No, silly…you’re my son and I love you. Couldn’t ask for better than that, could I?”
“I guess…”
“Don’t you want to be my best bud?”
“Well yeah, ok!”
To such an adolescent mind, “best friends” are usually one of two things: either the kid nearby who wants to play with you all the time and maybe you do sleepovers a lot and maybe once in a while he sneaks a cigarette from his dad and you share it in the field behind your house (as far away as you can get, so there’s NO WAY anybody could smell the smoke) just so you can be cool and boast about drinking beer (when you tried it once and spit it out ‘cuz it was SO gross) and how you know pirates had to bury gold in this field once so let’s just dig until we find it (and then your sister finds you in this hole up to your head and demands you fill it in or there’ll be hell to pay when Mom and Dad find out, so your friend darts off)….. or they’re the hero’s sidekick, always there with the silly joke or safety rope or trusty whip (plus they usually have the coolest pet), but who wants to be a sidekick, and how are you supposed to be the hero when you’re 6 years old and it’s not like you’re ever gonna REALLY beat your dad at arm wrestling, he just lets you win. But even when you watch him on the ground rolling around with the dog and teeth are gnashing and you watch them clamp down on an arm and you’re just frantic that he’s gonna be hurt and it’s all gonna be over…he doesn’t dart off.
Maybe that’s the idea. Huh…best buds. Yeah, you..Dad.
Lofty Shores Afar 