Best Buddies
Red was his name. His real name was probably Edward or Charles or John, but everyone called him Red. I never called him Red. I was 18 and he was my girlfriend’s father so I called him Mr. Conner. We had a typical Father/Boyfriend relationship - 75% polite friendliness, 25% constant under current of mild hostility. I was a freshman in college and Megan was a senior in high school living at home. I’m sure most of that mild hostility came from the fact that I was having sex with his baby daughter.
His wife told me he got the name “Red” as a teenager because he had red hair. Red had a very imaginative group of friends. I generally feel sorry for Redheads; they’re always getting called “Red.” I wonder if there is a guy out there whose buddies call him “Brown” because he has brown hair. “What’s up Brown! Where ya been old Brownie?” Probably not.
When I met Red his hair wasn’t really red anymore, it had advanced into a brittle mass of yellowish gray. It sat on top of his head like an abandoned bird’s nest. It was also the same exact color of Tramp’s coat, the family’s ancient and sweetly tempered Golden Retriever. It was heartwarming to see the two of them asleep, Red in a recliner with a belly full of fine Scotch, Tramp on the floor with a belly full of Alpo.
The queer thing about dating in high school is how often you deal with The Family, especially The Father. Today, I would never meet a girl’s parents unless we we’re ultra serious – but in high school you meet the whole goddamn family on the first date. It’s horrible.
I always wanted to impress Red. I always wanted him to like me. Sitting down to dinner with the Conner family I always wanted to say the right thing at the right time. I wanted to be funny and charming and respectful. I failed often. I constantly felt that I would never get his approval.
Megan’s older brother decided one day to get married, and I, practically being a member of the family, was invited to the out-of–town wedding. The night before the ceremony I hit the bars with the groomsmen and proceeded to get really drunk. They were all about ten to fifteen years older than me - and I thought I could keep up with them. I drank like a Viking at the Mead Hall. Hungover, in a cozy, air-conditioned, pitch-black hotel room, I slept through the entire wedding. I finally slithered in as they were cutting the cake. No one in the Conner family would speak to me. Shamed, I thought of just buying a bus ticket and taking the 12-hour trip home. I sucked it up and stayed.
The next day our flight was delayed. Red went to the airport bar alone. He just spent $30,000 on a wedding (that I missed) so he was going to get drunk. Two hours later he asked me to join him. He lectured me and called me a “little shit.” He was angry that I embarrassed his daughter and his family. His face was turning more and more red as he ordered a fresh Scotch. Between words he took a mighty swig and froze. He breathed in sharply and dug his fingers into the bar. His face was panicked. “Stroke,” he said, “I think I’m having a stroke.” He bent down to take another drink to calm himself but as his lips hit the glass he winced again even more dramatically. “Stroke!” He wheeled himself around and gripped my shoulder. Looking into his face I saw the tip of something red coming out of his nose. It was the cocktail straw. While drinking from his tumbler he managed in one motion to jam it far into his own nose. The pain in his brain was only the straw, not a blood clot. His eyes were tearing up as I slowly pulled it out. The airport bar drunks applauded and cheered with mock adulation. “Not a word,” he said, “Not a word to anyone.”
“No problem Red,” I said, and we became the best of pals (Until I broke up with his daughter and moved to a new city.)
Red was his name. His real name was probably Edward or Charles or John, but everyone called him Red. I never called him Red. I was 18 and he was my girlfriend’s father so I called him Mr. Conner. We had a typical Father/Boyfriend relationship - 75% polite friendliness, 25% constant under current of mild hostility. I was a freshman in college and Megan was a senior in high school living at home. I’m sure most of that mild hostility came from the fact that I was having sex with his baby daughter.
His wife told me he got the name “Red” as a teenager because he had red hair. Red had a very imaginative group of friends. I generally feel sorry for Redheads; they’re always getting called “Red.” I wonder if there is a guy out there whose buddies call him “Brown” because he has brown hair. “What’s up Brown! Where ya been old Brownie?” Probably not.
When I met Red his hair wasn’t really red anymore, it had advanced into a brittle mass of yellowish gray. It sat on top of his head like an abandoned bird’s nest. It was also the same exact color of Tramp’s coat, the family’s ancient and sweetly tempered Golden Retriever. It was heartwarming to see the two of them asleep, Red in a recliner with a belly full of fine Scotch, Tramp on the floor with a belly full of Alpo.
The queer thing about dating in high school is how often you deal with The Family, especially The Father. Today, I would never meet a girl’s parents unless we we’re ultra serious – but in high school you meet the whole goddamn family on the first date. It’s horrible.
I always wanted to impress Red. I always wanted him to like me. Sitting down to dinner with the Conner family I always wanted to say the right thing at the right time. I wanted to be funny and charming and respectful. I failed often. I constantly felt that I would never get his approval.
Megan’s older brother decided one day to get married, and I, practically being a member of the family, was invited to the out-of–town wedding. The night before the ceremony I hit the bars with the groomsmen and proceeded to get really drunk. They were all about ten to fifteen years older than me - and I thought I could keep up with them. I drank like a Viking at the Mead Hall. Hungover, in a cozy, air-conditioned, pitch-black hotel room, I slept through the entire wedding. I finally slithered in as they were cutting the cake. No one in the Conner family would speak to me. Shamed, I thought of just buying a bus ticket and taking the 12-hour trip home. I sucked it up and stayed.
The next day our flight was delayed. Red went to the airport bar alone. He just spent $30,000 on a wedding (that I missed) so he was going to get drunk. Two hours later he asked me to join him. He lectured me and called me a “little shit.” He was angry that I embarrassed his daughter and his family. His face was turning more and more red as he ordered a fresh Scotch. Between words he took a mighty swig and froze. He breathed in sharply and dug his fingers into the bar. His face was panicked. “Stroke,” he said, “I think I’m having a stroke.” He bent down to take another drink to calm himself but as his lips hit the glass he winced again even more dramatically. “Stroke!” He wheeled himself around and gripped my shoulder. Looking into his face I saw the tip of something red coming out of his nose. It was the cocktail straw. While drinking from his tumbler he managed in one motion to jam it far into his own nose. The pain in his brain was only the straw, not a blood clot. His eyes were tearing up as I slowly pulled it out. The airport bar drunks applauded and cheered with mock adulation. “Not a word,” he said, “Not a word to anyone.”
“No problem Red,” I said, and we became the best of pals (Until I broke up with his daughter and moved to a new city.)
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