Not quite twenty-five years ago, on the first day of freshman orientation in college, I made two friends: “John” and “Courtney.” John was one of my suitemates, a tall, lanky fellow from Minnesota or Wisconsin or some other place where it snows, and barely lasted one semester. Courtney was a petite blonde into whose pants John was desperate to get.
At first Courtney and I were only friends through John. Soon that changed. She wasn’t good at writing, so I found myself tutoring her through Freshman Comp; John, who had failed to get her on her back, suggested that I make her sleep with me in exchange for writing all her essays. This was a useful suggestion, as it informed me that John was a fucking creep whose company was best avoided. So Courtney & I both distanced outselves from him. We had a single class together: aerobics. One day we were side by side on the mat, doing pelvic thrusts, when the similarity of this exercise to a certain recreational activity occurred to both of us simultaneously, and we both dissolved into helpless laughter and got kicked out by the instructor. Childish, I know, but hey, we were kids.
Anyway, from that day forth we were best buds. Our friendship through college and beyond, much longer than any relationship any of us had for years. Around 19998 or so she moved cross country–partly for a job, partly for a guy–but that didn’t diminish the relationship; in fact, in some ways, it intensified it, as now we had to work at it more, decide whether it was worth continuing. And it was. In college she was my friend; afterwards she was my sister by another mother. Between '92 and 2008, there was literally not a week in which we didn’t speak on the phone. When she got engaged, I suspect she told me before anyone else; I know I told her first when I did. Between '92 and 2007 we had two major arguments. She exploded at me once for not taking proper care of my health, and I exploded at her for doing something reckless during a tornado.
But five years ago, things changed. Courtney started moving rightward, politically speaking, after she got married, and by the 2008 election, she hated the idea of Barack Obama becoming president; she called him an empty suit. Now I was fine with that–it’s not my job to tell her what to believe–but it still caused arguments; I was volunteering for the campaign, I donated money to the campaign, and she just felt that was wrong. Eventually we agreed to disagree on the issue, ruling that political discussions would henceforth not be allowed. But that was the first chink in our friendship armor. And the thing about armor is that once you damage it, once you establish a small weak point, that spot tends to spread and grow.
More chinks followed. They were more visible to her than to me, I think, because I honestly thought we were fine. But we stopped getting along so swimmingly. We stopped finding as much pleasure in one another’s company. This wasn’t because of our spouses, by the way; my wife & her husband still get along fine. But every time the four of us got together, there’d be more tension between me and Courtney, and no longer would she and I spend time alone. It was so subtle a thing that it was hard to notice. My little sister was first to comment on the difference in how we acted around one another. No more hugging, no more kisses on the forehead, no more physical closeness at all. Things accelerated after the baby was born; Courtney’s husband called to give his congratulations before she did.
Which brings us to this week. The weekly phone calls were long since a thing of the past – not because I’d stopped calling, but because she had. She’d stopped picking up as well. Saturday I decided to take the bull by the horns, so I sent an email asking what was her deal. She didn’t reply until today, and her reply was … odd. Cold, in a way she’s never been before. Being friends with me had become painful for her, she said, and she didn’t need any unnecessary pain in her life. If my wife and her husband wanted to remain friends, Courtney said, that was fine, but she was done with me.
So it hurts. Part of me feels that it shouldn’t, or that I shouldn’t let it. I have the most beautiful baby girl in the world, the most wonderful wife in the world, a great stepdaughter whom I’ll get to walk down the aisle next year, great sisters, and so on. My friendship with Courtney had been unraveling for years, and it’s not like she’s my only friend. But it still feels like somebody punched me in the throat.
I have an emotional pain metric. My son dying was 100; my mother dying was 95; my wife leaving me was 90; breaking up with my previous great love was about a 70. Giving up writing fiction was 75, as was getting fired in 2005 from the best job I’d had up to that time.
Losing Courtney is about a 65. I’d rather have the punch in the throat.
