Tom Keane

Fair-weather friends

I’ll take fair-weather friends over true-blue. The former are easy. The latter? They’re just not worth it.

For one, fair-weather friends are just a lot more fun. When things are good -- you’re young, rich, healthy, and worry-free -- they come along for the ride.  The times you spend together are boisterous and causal. You laugh, joke and have a good time.  You don’t have to listen to their problems -- after all, this fair-weather thing is a two-way street -- and, since you’re doing pretty well, you don’t have to burden them with any of yours.  Sure, fair-weather friends tend to mooch off of you, but that doesn’t matter.  You’ve got money.  And at least you’re eating well: Good steakhouses with big wine lists rather than that’ll-be-two-checks-please diners where you pick around your macaroni and cheese.

And then, of course, there’s the effort involved.  True-blues want to sit down with you and talk about stuff.  Not stuff as in “Hey, is it my imagination, or is that blonde over there looking over at me?” No, they want to talk about stuff like career choices and aging and cranky bosses and body aches and -- without question worst of all -- relationships. You know: What was she thinking?  Why’d she say that?  Is she really into me?

I know what you’re thinking.  That’s the tradeoff. You listen to them and then they listen to you.  They’re your sounding boards, your shoulders to cry on, sources of strength when you have doubts. But you miss my point.  I’m doing fine.  I’m not in need of anyone’s help. In fact, the whole conversation would make me uncomfortable.  After my true-blue unloads his fears and worries, he doubtless would ask about me.  What would I say? “Gee, I’m sorry your life sucks but I’ve really got nothing to complain about.”  It would make me feel terrible -- raising the odd circumstance that the only thing I have to feel bad about is that I don’t have anything to feel bad about.  Instead I’d probably make stuff up, which would make me a liar which would then give me two things to feel bad about.

Of course, I’m not so self-absorbed -- or so much an optimist -- that I don’t recognize that someday things might not be so great.  Then, I suppose one could argue, it might do me good to have a true-blue. And, you might point out, one can’t at the last moment find such friends.  Friendships -- real friendships -- need to be nurtured. Wouldn’t it be better to abandon all of today’s fair-weather friends and cultivate a few true-blues for the future?

It might if I believed they would remain that way.  I think that those we regard as true-blue are far more fickle than we suspect.  Look at marriage. Couples promise to remain together “through sickness and health, till death do we part.”  Yet half of those end up divorced. These are people who took vows, who dressed up in tuxes and gowns, who shoved wedding cake in each other’s faces. So what does that make the rate of fickleness for friends who never took a vow?  I’d guess at least 80 percent.

In any event, when things go bad, I don’t think I want a true-blue friend.  Everything with them is so serious.  You sit around, forever discussing your problems, morosely sinking deeper into despair.  Really, it just makes things worse. But fair-weather friends?  They don’t want to hear about it.  “My back is killing me,” you tell them, “I think I ruptured a disk.”

“Have a beer,” they say.  “So, you think the Sox have a chance this year?”

The truth is, if you talk about good times and keep thing nice and light, you can’t help but feel better.  Good friends drag you down.  Fair-weather friends keep you up.  I know all of this may make me sound shallow, but that’s the way I like it. When things get too deep, I feel like I’m drowning.

The Invisible Man

I remember precisely the moment it happened. I had wakened early, just before six.  It was late November and still dark.  I walked into the bathroom, looked into the mirror, and saw the wall behind me, the towel bar with my beaten-up, reddish-brown robe thrown loosely over it and above it, my favorite photo, an image of a smiling Lou Gehrig and glum Babe Ruth standing side-by side.

What I did not see was my face. I rubbed my eyes, thinking sleep had clouded them, yet still there was nothing.  I moved about, looking for different angles, switching on a few more lights. Nothing. I was invisible.

I suppose I should have been shocked, yelping aloud, running around the apartment at wit’s end. Really, I wasn’t surprised. All of my life I had known I was different.  Finally, it had happened and, I must confess, I felt relieved. In fact, I was excited.  I’d seen the Invisible Man movies. I had a good idea of what I could do.

I put on some clothes and went back to the bathroom.  I had been thinking I’d be just like Claude Rains, the clothes visible but my head and hands invisible.  But no. Even my clothes had disappeared.  Just as well, I thought.  Suppose I was walking down the street and the invisibility suddenly wore off.  I wouldn’t want to be naked.

I decided to go into work, just to see what everyone was doing -- maybe even to hear what they had to say about me when they thought I wasn’t around.  Driving there was a hoot.  Every once in a while, I thought I saw other drivers give a double take as they wondered how come they couldn’t see the driver.  That’s because I’m invisible, guys! Hah! I went into the first elevator I could find and pressed my floor.  Six people followed me in and they stood, facing the door, completely unaware I was there.  My floor was one of the first stops and I worried it might be difficult to get off, but somehow they had left room enough for me to slip through and out of the door. 

I walked down the hall to my cubicle. People passed by me, not even giving me a look.  I went to my cubicle and pulled back the chair to sit.  Wait. Suppose they see?  A chair mysteriously moving on its own would be sure to draw attention.  I looked around, but no one seemed perturbed.  I went to the break room where a small crowd had gathered.  I walked in and -- of course -- no one said anything.  No greetings, no acknowledgments.  I really was invisible. 

I stood still  watching people come in and out and then, I thought, maybe I’ll have some fun.  Someone had left a cup of coffee on the counter and, with a quick motion, I knocked it off.  It landed on the floor, spattering around the room. Julie, who was seated at a table reading a newspaper, shrieked and jumped up.  “What the…” she said and then shook her head, muttering under her breath  She looked directly at me -- almost as if she knew I was there -- and then I realized Bob was right behind me.  She must have been be blaming him!

“Can you help me?” she asked. 

“Sure,” he said, grabbing some paper napkins. I quickly walked out of the room while they were cleaning up.

This was amusing, but it’s time, I figured, to indulge in a few fantasies.  I left the building and went north a block to a health club to which I once belonged. I quickly passed by the front desk.  “Hey,” I heard as a woman raised her head. She must have felt the air move but I was well into the club.

This was the moment I had dreamed of.  I stood at the entrance to the women’s locker room and, with no hesitation, walked right in.  Within a few seconds, I noticed how different things were.   Men’s locker rooms are staid affairs, no one talking, guys just quickly changing in or out of street clothes.  But here all of the women were screaming and pulling towels around themselves.  I’d been hoping to see a lot of skin, but everyone quickly seemed to be covering up. Most of them, for some mysterious reason, appeared to be are walking towards the exit.

I finished my tour or the place and, as I was leaving, noticed it was almost completely empty.  I walked out and saw all of the women, chattering amongst themselves outside of the locker room.  I quickly went by them and made for the street. 

Wow.  What an experience.  And to think -- I was completely invisible! But now, as I stood on the sidewalk, people walking by, completely oblivious to me, my wallet started to feel a little light and I thought why not load it up a bit? There was a drug store on the corner and so I walked in.  I went behind the counter and, just as a cashier opened a cash drawer, reached in and grabbed a fistful of twenties.

“Hey,” she said and I realized she must see the bills floating around.  She reached out to grab them and I spun away.  I quickly ran for the door when I barged directly into a security guard.  He was big and heavy and grabbed me with both hands.  Dumb luck.  He couldn’t see me, of course, but he knew he had something.

“What this?” he bellowed and I remained silent. I was hoping he’d relax his grip but he was clever and strong and I was immobilized.  A few minutes later, two police officers walked in the door and came over. 

“What d’ya got here?” they asked.  Plainly, they couldn’t see me, otherwise they’d never have asked the question. They somehow managed to find my arms, however, and pinned them behind my back, locking them together with handcuffs.

And so now I sit in this cell.  The bed is hard, the meals are shoved through a small metal door built into the bars, and there is little to do but stare into space, watching the sun rise and fall through my tiny window.  Guards and prisoners walk by, ignoring me.  No one speaks to me, no one even glances my way.  I’m caged, which I don’t like at all, but I’m still invisible and that, I think, really is kind of cool.