Bucking the Yoke

 “An old friend never can be found, and nature has provided that he cannot easily be lost.”

– Samuel Johnson

Let me tell you about Buck. I have known him since I was a sophomore in college, where we forged a deep friendship that everyone predicted would grow into something more. Despite denying the possibility, we became involved during the summer after my junior year. Buck is the only man for whom I have ever fallen head-over-heels, the only one with whom I allowed myself to be absolutely vulnerable, the only one I was completely unabashed about loving, and the only man to whom I have ever been able to see myself married. That is, up until he dumped me: swiftly, frigidly, without any prior notice. Buck is the only one who has ever broken my heart.

I was a wreck for a good year after the breakup, what even I would term a “psycho ex-girlfriend.” But through it all, Buck maintained that he wanted to stay friends because he had always remained friends with his other exes. I clearly remember the night that I decided I was just too tired of it all, too tired of the drama, too tired of what he had made me become, and too tired of hearing about all those immature things he was experiencing that I had already gone through. That night, as we talked on the phone, and he complained about the lack of direction in his life and how he was considering moving back across the country to live with his parents, I said, “Buck, go with God,” giving him permission to leave, actually wishing that he would. He did.

We didn’t speak for the next 5 years...

Until he tracked me down and insinuated himself into my life little by little. By this time, I was very guarded when it came to Buck. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know anything about him, or if I even wanted to know him. Yet he persisted. He slowly urged me away from the defensive until we eventually overcame the awkwardness and renewed our friendship. Regularly since then he has told me that I am one of his closest friends.

For a couple of years before I moved to Lowell, we talked on the phone every week. During the final summer in my home state, Buck hired me to do a special project for his employer, so we visited with each other weekly. Then, after I moved to Massachusetts, and he was only an hour away, we met up a few times for dinner or to explore Mount Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge. I’m not sure what happened, but until Monday, I haven’t seen Buck for the last two years.

But, finally, here we were, together again, just as comfortable as slipping on an old pair of jeans. Because of everything we’ve been through together, because of everything we’ve known about each other and meant to each other, it is reassuring to have someone who knows my quirks and who doesn’t pass judgment, and vice versa. For instance, when I showed up wearing a tropically-hued madras blazer. Or when Buck admitted to owning the complete Hall and Oates collection, including all of their solo albums.

It’s also heartening to have a friend that has similar interests. Buck is my only friend who has the same broad and eclectic interest in music that I do, the only one with an advanced degree like me, the only one with whom I can talk on an intellectual level for any extended amount of time and never notice the ticking of the clock, the only other person I know who doesn’t like chicken. He is the only friend who will willingly and eagerly accompany me for Indian food, the one who instinctively understands “The Record” exhibition at the Institute of Contemporary Art, and the only one who has a bigger predetermined monthly spending allowance for music than I do. And while I am wary of marriage for fear of ending up like my parents, Buck is wary because he doesn’t believe any relationship will equal the precedent set by his own parents.

You may wonder why Buck and I don’t rekindle our collegiate romance, because even to me, he seems like a pretty good match... he likes jazz, he’s comfortable in cemeteries, and while I think he may be lacking in the Kerouac department, I have no doubt that he would make an effort were I to ask him. For many many years I carried a torch for him, going so far as to joke with him that he “had ruined me for any other man.” 

The truth is, as I discovered the summer that we worked together, and in the words of Buck’s favorite musician B.B. King, the thrill is gone. While I am not physically attracted to Buck any longer, I very selfishly want to preserve the singular mental synchronicity that I have with him. And I vehemently pray that Samuel Johnson is right… and that he will always be in my life.