When you get older, they say you only need a couple friends. I don’t know if I need any. When I get together with my pals, you better speak in phrases cause you’re not going to complete a sentence. We can’t stop trying to outwit one another. It’s a battle of endurance in search of entertainment.
I’ve been inundated with clickbait articles lately with headlines like “You Only Need A Few Friends” and ”You May Be a Narcissist If You Own A Dog.” Does Google think I’m losing my marbles? I don’t have a dog.
But the thinking is if your parents owned one and gave it more attention than you, then you have issues. And when you age, you’ll get a dog because it gives you constant, uninterrupted admiration, which is more than your mother or father ever did. And more than your wife or husband ever will.
A few weeks back, I met some friends I’ve known since childhood — they came from out of town on business, and their wives were M.I.A. A boy’s night out was planned — whoopee. We had a similar rendezvous a year earlier. We love football, we love stories, we love messing with each other, and we love a drink. So we tried to enter a nice local pizzeria to grab some slices and cheer the Bulldogs on — we didn’t last three minutes before a lady came up and said, “I’ve already called management, and you guys have to leave.”
Were we having too much fun in those first two minutes of entering the place and intimidated the sourpuss with merriment? I guess our strides were levitating off the floor, our speech too deep, scary, and eerily monotonous — what evil emerges from the night? We were just talking as talkers do. The hostesses ignored us, so we headed straight toward the bar, continuing our busy preppy jive speak — I recall it well. We only had one or two beers in the room before going out.
The young lady manager must have had a premonition invade her empty skull cavity. She’s the type that has anxiety attacks at neighborhood Halloween parties. We didn’t try to convince the capital-killing employee that she was making a big mistake throwing us out because we’re the coolest guys in the world, and we have plenty of money. We were OK with the decision. We were out of there quickly — we had a game to watch.
So we went to the next pub down the road. The hostess at Mike’s Hole in the Wall seated us. And even gave us menus! It’s a great spot in Hixson. And the scenery was better to boot. We were happy to be accepted. Georgia was playing Alabama, and history will note that the first half was a blowout in Alabama’s favor, 32 to 7.
My two lifelong Georgia fanatic friends could’ve cared less about the score. They were blathering on about this and that. It was amazing. I was interrupted more often than a conservative at Georgetown University. Cutting in with my two cents was like kissing a girl with braces —- better not try it. I’ve met Hell’s Angels with better social skills. I was fascinated by how they could spit out so many words without taking a breath. I finally busted in and said, “Comma, break, can I get in here — conversations are better when you let someone finish their thought, dig?”
They laughed and said, “Like, whatever, dude.” Now, I was about to call management myself.
The truth is these guys are talkers. I’m a talker, and I had mentally prepared myself for this evening, just not enough. One of the friends recently went through chemo and is on a basket of pills, so he gets a break. He likes to have a drink, and deservedly so. He even apologizes before he cuts in. He said a dozen times, “Kid, I know I’m cutting in, and just let me know beforehand, and I won’t do it, but I have to say this one thing, etc., etc …”
I’m getting a kick out of this in some strange way as the night goes on — when in Rome.
I’m trying to figure it all out — have I picked a bunch of buffoons as friends, or is it the liquor talking. Their jaws will lock up soon, I’m praying. I need to be patient. This train has run so far off the rails it can’t be located.
We finished a fine meal at Mike’s and headed back to the hotel, where we planned to watch the rest of the game in the lobby at the Laquinta Inn of Highway 153. But fate intervened, and time slowed to a crawl as we got hung up in my friend's car talking endlessly about which five Rock n Roll bands are the greatest of all time. The next 45 minutes sounded like a bunch of high school dropouts tailgating in the parking lot of Memorial Auditorium in 1979 before a rock concert, ‘did Pink Floyd belong there? I think ZZ Top was Blues, not Rock — we are talking Rock n Roll. The Who sucked after Keith Moon died. I don’t think the Beatles belong …, what? You moron, how can you say that — well, at least we can agree on the Stones. I remember you both owning Abba LPs, you losers. I know the greatest live album of all time! Live at Fillmore East — the Allman Brothers, yes, yes, of course, right on awesome, no doubt.’
Round in round, it went. I asked the boys, “Should we go in and see how the dogs are coming along — they could come back — they’re pretty good, you know.”
They trashed me with, “You’re a moron. The game is over — get a grip — this is fun talking about old bands.”
Indeed, I felt like a moron. But I went in and came back a few minutes later and told them the score was 32- 29 Bama with 12 minutes left. Do y’all still want to sit out here and argue about Led Zeppelin being on the list?”
“No, you idiot,” they shouted. “let’s get our asses in there and watch the game! You ask the dumbest questions, kid!”
So here’s my conclusion: when guys get older, they know time is running out, and they have a lot to say, and they’re going say it. All shyness and politeness have vanished. It’s all about who’s getting the last laugh, who can get the best cut in, and how many words can be said every minute to prove that Alzheimer's is not setting in. And the only thing you can do is fight back with words. Your silence won’t help a bit. Try to ignore them when they turn up the radio when you’re talking, and when they yell at the TV and cut you off in the middle of your sentence, even though the game is 44 to 7, with just two minutes left.
Small, polite talk is good when getting to know people, but I don’t want to know more about these guys. I know everything already. And vice versa. So, do you need more friends? Or is it worth keeping old ones when you grow older? I suggest finding new ones if you must.
We finally bedded down in the wee morning hours — due in part to the polite insistence of management. The stories were still firing off strong, but the energy slipped around 3 AM, and I said, “If we do this again, let’s do it every five years or so — if it all.” They laughed and agreed.
The next morning, I woke up with bloodshot eyes and the first thought that popped into my head was — I need to find a dog.