“I thought the custom was to fart after the meal.” I could feel my nostrils burning, “I think my nose hairs just fell out…”
Raymond tucked into his pastrami on rye, took a swig of his Dr. Brown’s Cel-ray Tonic, “your nose was due for a trim anyway… you should thank me.” A crunch on his half sour pickle added a punctuation mark to his comment, “Besides, it’s meant as a compliment to the chef and host.”
“That’s after the meal… AFTER!! And that’s for Chinese food… we’re not eating Chinese food!” I doubted this custom anyway… I think my older brother made that up to cover the time he cut a world class fart when we were having take home Chicken Chow Mein from The Far East.
I picked up my everything bagel with cream cheese, lox & tomato, started to take a bite, thought the better of it, and returned my sandwich to the plate, “You know, you’ve just killed my bagel… the tomato is turning red.”
“It already is red!”
“I mean more red… like when you plant tomatoes next to a nuclear waste site. Look… the people next to us are getting up to leave. You made them leave!”
“They’re leaving because they’re done eating… they’re going to pay their bill.”
“That old lady took out a lace handkerchief and is holding it to her nose. I think she is going to throw up. And that guy across the room just dropped his fork to his plate… and that’s there… I’m sitting two feet from the epicenter.”
“Enough already… will you eat your food, please and stop carrying on.”
“How’s your pastrami?”
Raymond an I go back years… to the sand box as Mrs. Bellaga would say. We lived in the same neighborhood, went to the same schools, dated the same women… he even married my ex-wife.
But every month, on the third Friday we have lunch. We alternate paying the bill and choosing the restaurant. One chooses the place and the other guy pays. This lead to a spate of afternoons at very expensive restaurants as we would try to out do each other in sticking the other guy with a monstrous bill. I left Ray with a $300 lunch tab once. He paid without a blink and agreed that the Puligny-Montrachet and the Ch. Beychevelle had been excellent choices.
We’re past that now. We go to places that we both enjoy… and invariably it’s to simple spots… no linen, sometimes paper plates; but always a place where the schmooze can be “let out to pasture.”
“Who are the Democrats going to put up?” I’m asked.
You have to understand. Raymond spent his college years worshiping the then Governor of California, Ronald Reagan. As an adult he has morphed into the poster boy of every liberal cause celebre. I never forget to remind him of his earlier allegiance. He would tell me his position when he was an undergraduate was based on his choice of Fraternity and his desire to get laid.
“I think we could put up Mickey Mouse and win. The trouble is I don’t think we have someone as good as Mickey Mouse.”
Topics that are usually taboo in conversation.. religion and politics, are the very areas that occupy our time. We also talk of life’s aggravations, our work, the problems of getting old, our anxieties. We don’t talk about the ladies in our life. Particularly since he hooked up with the wicked witch of the west.
Perhaps that should tell you about the strength of our friendship… that there is nothing that would stand in its way. Even the wicked witch of the west.
I sipped my glass of tea. And just mulled over some things… nothing to do with my bagel… or the next Democratic candidate, nor global warming. I just thought of my friend Raymond. How he has appeared in virtually every scene in my life… how he has been there in times good or bad… a voice I could turn to… a voice not colored by the marriage bed. A voice I could trust. Trust… even if he married the wicked witch of the west.
“Ray… I’m worried. I have more years in back of me than ahead. And I have yet to do one important thing in my life. My presence on earth isn’t as significant as a grain of sand. I wrecked a business, I have horrible dreams, I’m afraid of running a red light… and my pants fit too tight!!”
The room fell into momentary silence. The crunch of Raymond’s pickle cut the still. He looked directly into my face, “Maybe you should let out your crotch.”
I was hoping for pearls of wisdom. I finished my bagel thru the haze of Ray’s lingering fart… and thought how lucky I was… Lucky to have a friend like Raymond Bellaga… lucky to have the major problems of the world… the worries of a lifetime… rendered insignificant before what is truly essential — pants that fit comfortably.
“Ray, I don’t know how you do it. But thanks…”