The other day, I met up with an old co-worker. Let’s call him Miguel.
We’ve known each other for years, Miguel and I, but hanging out became more difficult after I quit our mutual public service job in New York City. He was the only person at that job that I formed a true bond with — someone I could not only complain about work with, but discuss other things as well.
Those “other things,” however, were never all that serious.
We spoke at length about the ups and downs of comic books. We shared our favorite shows in the hopes the other would watch it. We drooled over the hole-in-the-wall burrito place we often went to during lunch. (Burrito Box, for anyone in the NYC area. You’re welcome.)
We never dug into the nitty-gritty of our respective love lives. We never mined the depths of one another’s hopes, dreams, and fears. We never got personal beyond what was cursory.
… There’s no “but,” in case you were waiting for one.
Our friendship wasn’t — isn’t — superficial. We genuinely enjoy one another’s company, sparse though it is these days. We know what we are to one another, what to expect from one another, and what we need from one another.
Which is why it was so refreshing to see Miguel the other day. None of my other friends love comic books like he does. None of them watch those shows we shared. None of them have experienced the bliss of Burrito Box.
Spending time with him was like having a great weight lifted off my chest. It wasn’t a particularly emotional or profound weight — just one I needed to remove and replace with his company.
…
The day after I hung out with Miguel, I phoned a different friend. Let’s call him Robbie.
We’ve known each other since seventh grade, Robbie and I, but hanging out became much more difficult after he moved to Florida. He’s the only person from middle school (alongside his twin brother) that I formed a true bond with — someone I could not only complain about classes with, but discuss other things as well.
Those “other things” were often quite serious.
We spoke at length about the ups and downs of our respective outlooks and attitudes. We shared our least favorite secrets in the hopes the other would understand. We drooled over the French fries our school served at lunch. (What? That qualifies as “quite serious,” doesn’t it?)
We dug into the nitty-gritty of our respective love lives. We mined the depths of one another’s hopes, dreams, and fears. We got personal beyond what was cursory.
… But.
Our friendship wasn’t — isn’t — “better” than my friendship with Miguel. We genuinely enjoy one another’s company, sparse though it is these days. We know what we are to one another, what to expect from one another, and what we need from one another.
Which is why it was so refreshing to hear from Robbie the day after seeing Miguel. Robbie doesn’t love comic books like Miguel, but he loves me like a brother, and I him. Robbie doesn’t watch the shows Miguel told me about, but he watches me grow and change, and I him. Robbie hasn’t been with me to Burrito Box, which… next time he comes to NYC, needs to change.
Speaking with him over the phone was like having a great weight lifted off my chest. A different weight than the one Miguel lifted off me — one I’m equally happy to have removed.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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Photo credit: émi Walle on Unsplash
