Family at a Distance

Part 1

I sat at the far end of our favourite diner in the East End of Toronto and gazed out into the rainy night. It had been years since I had seen my friends. Growing up, they were once a staple in my household, which was comprised of myself, an only child, and my single mother. To me, their presence in our house felt like a surrogate brotherhood, especially when mom was at work ensuring that I—no—my friends and I were well-fed.

I was sure I would recognize them, and yet I watched the door anxiously, as if they could somehow slip past me into the empty restaurant and then leave. I never used to think like this; maybe that was a by-product of getting older. You find things to worry about.

One by one they filed in, however, out of the dreary elements, pretty much as I remembered them. Terry, bearded and dressed like he could front a rockabilly band and Finn, curly haired and wearing a simple green hoodie.

I rose, hugged and shook hands with them. There were no weird pauses or trailer hitches – you know, when one person tries to fist-bump and other tries to high five – and the resulting configuration of hands looks kind of like a trailer hitch? Maybe this is a regional term. I digress.

After our brief reintroduction, we sat down and immediately started trading long-dead inside jokes. It was as if no time had passed, whatsoever. Over plates of ribs, chicken and fried rice, we caught up on high-school gossip, revisited tales of old significant others and swapped stories about our respective career paths. Terry was still working in the arts, and Finn was planning to move to South America to teach English. I got particularly animated about the latter; from what I could recall, Finn was overdue for a vacation, or at least some time spent out of this city.

"You still stutter when you get excited, huh?" Finn said with a laugh. I laughed too. I used to imagine that my words were trying to leave my mouth simultaneously and got stuck, like the Three Stooges trying to pass through a doorway at the same time. He remembered that, too.

Terry then told me about the recent development in his life: his new media career was picking up. He had just locked down an art show at one of the hottest galleries in town—and also garnered corporate backing. It was fortunate that the three of us chose this night to meet.

"That only took you, what, twenty years?" I asked with a smirk.

"Look who's talking," he replied. I chuckled. For most of my career, I had worked as a writer, and on the best of days it was a war of attrition. Sometimes it felt like I was straight-up spinning my wheels, but at all times it was a labour of love, just like Terry's. We could always commiserate over that.

There was no real reason any of us had lost touch, other than life getting in the way. New jobs, new partners, new schedules and new responsibilities made something as easy as eating greasy diner food a challenge. And yet, there was no love lost amongst us.

As we had before, we could link up after months, weeks, or years and immediately snap back into our conversational rhythm. We'd drop real, raw emotions without repercussion; float back and forth between musing on spirituality and discussing the X-Files, Unsolved Mysteries or other 90s sci-fi nostalgia. Nothing was sacred, nothing was serious, but everything mattered.

After we had our fill of ribs, somewhere around the third or fourth plate, it was time to call it a night. As I watched my two friends walk back out into the late-evening drizzle. I wondered when the next time we'd cross paths would be. South America is a long way from Toronto, and over the course of dinner, Terry had hinted at moving stateside. I then paused and took solace in the fact that whenever we did meet again, our respective dynamics would be exactly the same. Terry would prattle on about his most recent project; Finn would say something completely off-colour; we'd all lovingly mock each other's idiosyncrasies and in the end feel great about the whole thing

I was grateful to have people like this in my life, I thought. Trustworthy, transparent, and encouraging of catharsis, even when they were being colossal pains in the neck. Though I had grown up without siblings, I had serendipitously stumbled across the next best thing: family on demand.