Yesterday I got together for lunch with an old friend I hadn’t seen for five years. Our time together was beautiful, like bacon grease flowing down the Rocky Mountains.
Though the years may have thickened our midsections and shriveled our genitals, the bonds of friendship have remained strong, like a transcontinental railroad of emotions, built by Chinese immigrants and shiftless Irish layabouts. The burgers we ate were the golden railroad spikes that sealed our union, and the succulent beef juices that dribbled down our chins were like the joyful tears of Union Pacific stockholders when the graft-laden government contracts for the rail line were finalized.
My old friend and I regaled one another with tales of our lives from the past few years. Stories of marriage, children, and cat-loathing bandied back and forth, punctuated by hearty smiles and immediately-regretted winks. Our conversation sped wildly but wove a beautiful, geometrically precise story, like a spirograph of friendship. Assuming that the other customers at the restaurant were listening on as we spun our stories, I loudly shouted for everybody to leave us alone. So chastened, they returned to their meals and we to our apple-cheeked conviviality.
At the end of our time together, I took my old friend’s hand in mine and shook it firmly, a long-practiced Western custom. With evenly maintained eye contact and slightly moistened lips, we bid each other farewell and wished one another luck in our future endeavors (for him, impending fatherhood; for me, eating a large block of cheese).
Then, of course, since I don’t know how to quit while I’m ahead, I went to Dairy Queen by myself and ate three Blizzards, thus dooming myself to a long evening on the can.