“You know, knowing you and then knowing your resume is like knowing two different people,” my friend Erin said. “Because one of you organized a fucking 5k run/walk fundraiser that raised thousands of dollars, and the other is batshit crazy.”
I breathed a sigh of relief.
Erin said this to me over a beer and a tequila soda at a small brewery off of Haddon Avenue in South Jersey.
We were two of six people in the bar on a Thursday night. There was no music playing to create the illusion of lively atmosphere.
When we walked in, the reaction of the men at the bar was reminiscent of Spongebob and Patrick entering the Salty Spitoon.
“All bubble-blowing babies will be beaten senseless by every able bodied patron in the bar,” I expected the bartender to say through the side of his cigarette hugging lips.
But rather he said, “Cash only. ATM’s in the back.”
It was a long time since I’d last seen Erin. A couple months is a lot if you used to spend hourstogether everyday for years on end.
We swam on the same swim team for ten years, and grew up close enough to bike over each other’s houses at twelve years old. Who knows your deepest darkest secrets better than a childhood friend?
I knew Erin watched 25 days of Elf every Christmas season. From December 1st to the 25th, she followed a strict regimen of sitting in front of the tv and watching Will Ferrel stumble around New York City in yellow tights.
“What’s wrong with her?” My mom asks every year.
“I still don’t know,” I respond.
As teenagers, Erin knew things weren’t always okay in my home. She saw when small cuts began spreading across the backs of my forearms. She knew when there was nothing more I wanted to be than nothing.
We’re 25 years old now. Erin still watches Elf, and I’m still here.
It’s strange to meet people in your twenties. They have no idea where you come from or who you used to be, unless you tell them.
Who wants to tell their coworkers how they’ve memorized every line in Elf?
Who wants to buy a $3,000 egg?
There’s a guy named Matt at the gym I work at. Matt owns chickens, and provides weekly updates about his coup because I like Matt and I ask.
“When the weather warms up, I’ma get a shitload of eggs,” Matt said the other day.
“Can I please have one,” I asked. “My desk needs springtime decor.”
“Yeah, but that’ll be $3,000.”
“For sure, let me dig up my checkbook,” I laughed.
“If it were the first of the season it really would be,” Matt said.
“$3,000?” I asked. “What’s the joke?”
“When you first decide to raise chickens, it’s an investment,” he explained. (This is a natural time to explain that Matt is in his mid-forties with a mortgage, wife, and children, all of which are foreign to me. Somehow we still find something to talk about.)
“You have to get the chickens shipped out from a farm, which isn’t cheap. And then you have to buy the materials for the coup, fencing and feeding,” Matt tugged at his long, fuzzy black beard. “That first egg costs thousands.”
“Which is a shame when you consider the fact that if you dropped that egg from a balcony, someone would walk by and think, ‘there’s a 30 cent spill right there,” I reasoned.
“Exactly!” Matt’s handed traveled from his beard to push back the equally unruly black hair from his forehead. “At first glance no one would have any idea how much it took to get that first egg.”
Are not humans the same way?
People don’t say to Erin, “nice to meet you, can your recite the entire script of Elf, The Batman Lego Movie, and The Spongebob Movie to me?” (Despite how much Erin would love if they did.)
Back at the brewery I leaned in toward Erin, in a way one does only when sharing something only a trusted confidant would understand.
“Wanna go watch Elf?” It was March.
Erin slammed down the rest of her beer.
“I thought you’d never ask,” she said. “Let’s get the check.”
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