Old Friends

I may be old, but I am not dead.  Today is a football Saturday in East Lansing.  The game is at night.  People are just starting to tailgate.  A lie it would be if I said I did not notice the coeds with bare midriffs, tight tube tops and perky breasts.  (Had to suss out what word to use their to be the least lecherous and offensive -tatas, hooters, boobs, etc.). The males out at these beer and weed fueled fests are of course living that Bruce Springsteen lyric, “The boys try and look so hard”.  Alums with their seat cushions, aviator shades and Spartan logo’d hats are passing by me in droves.

Right now I am sitting in the Union.  I am in what used to be the Union Grill.  It has undergone a number of changes since my days here.  For a time they had real restaurants.  Given the three months of dead time in the summer, the Wendy’s and the other chains folded up tents and left. Now there are three nondescript bowl, Mexican and chicken places.  The quality looks to be about the same as when this place was the Union Grill.  The more things change, the more they stay the same.

A friend of mine, an old roommate from college and after, has been trying to catch up with me for several weeks. We have kind of, sort of set this as a place to connect.  My friend, and he is a good friend, is worried about me. You tell someone you have cancer and they get concerned.  Gotta say that makes two of us.  Together we make up two thirds of the raunchiest acts to ever participate in the Mayo Hall talent show.  The details will be spared for your dear reader.  At least for now.

This is the man who introduced me to the Lutheran faith, really.  On Sunday mornings he would pound on my door and drag me to services.  Our pores would be oozing oily with the smell of Jack Daniels and Jim Beam.  Our stomachs would be churning with the acids from too many Lay’s potato chips, too much alcohol and too little real food.  We might have reeked of weed too.  But like I said he would pound on my door and we off to church there to work our way through the liturgy set out in the old red Lutheran hymnal.

We sat in the back of the church, near the door.  You never know when you may have to fly out into the sunlight to hurl the bit of that hard shell Taco Bell taco that just will not digest. He was the man who gave me the lesson in chain reaction vomiting.  One morning following a  night we spent consuming several rounds of shots of JD at the Green Door Lounge we drove over to Don’s Windmill, the one that used to be near Frandor in Lansing Township.  Looking at the menu I got the bright idea of getting one of Don’s unique specialities, chili waffles.

For some reason the idea of beefy, meaty chili on a crunchy waffle just sounded good to be.  It came to the table, it was meaty and the waffle was crisp.  Both of my table mates, including this man looked on in disgust.  Well we drove back to our student rental hovel on the east side of Lansing, North Clemens Street..  It only took the time of the drive for the remnants of the shots to begin a battle with the now soggy waffle bits, the beans and the greasy meat.

Eventually I made the decision that I would let the queasiness run its course and I bolted for the bathroom.  I made the long call on the big phone.  I knelt at the porcelain altar.  I spewed in Technicolor. No sooner had my stomach emptied then my table mates who had been listening to me had to run to the other half bath and the garbage can out the back door.  It was contagious by sound.

[hours later]

We caught up.  We went to the dormitory for dinner.  We watched the MSU Marching Band play the fight song several times.  We walked through the tailgating next to the stadium.  It was good to see my friend.  It was good to have someone voice such clear care and concern.  We met over 40. Years ago in a public speaking class.  We have had our ups and downs.  But the friendship remains.  This is a good thing.