Conover
I met him in 9th or 10th grade, back when we were just learning about strange thoughts that occurred to us about girls. But there is no clear cut place that we can go--worth its weight in gold--but years have past.
In that small town fashion that L.A. displays so often--thousands of miles from Venice and Fullerton, I randomly walked into a gas station--I almost didn't get out of the car, but for some reason (perhaps an intervention of the divine)--I headed inside to accompany my mates, only to see him there, in which we'd embraced each other in a long, firm hug. Felt like I could see into his heart; in all its mystery
Then, tonight, we hung out.
He'd not changed much, in contrast to me with a darker tan and a loss of hair that only days, hours, and weeks spent beneath the California sun can produce, and we were both equally surprised to meet each other in such a remote place, we had an embrace that seemed to last forever; going back to the dreams of living within my head when I was only 15, and we sat next to each other, playing trumpet.
I was always better than him. Always better than everyone, and to this day I can pick up my cornet (a smaller, british version of the tried and true trumpet) and make it do nearly whatever I want it to do.
But the real fun is finding about his ways and means. Like me, he smokes, and has experimented with other things. We watched a movie and equally enjoyed it, and hopefully will be able to chill out tomorrow and hang out.
It's weird...some people you think are gone forever. Myspace and Facebook help people keep in touch, but I can't be bothered. The telephone and E-mail are enough for me, but I can't help but wonder, was it a fluke, or predisposition?
The problem being is that we'll both be involved with school in the Autumn--when the weather turns the leaves to flames--and our time is so limited, but that makes each day and night all the more important.
I feel like a part of me that was missing has been replaced and filled. I must confess that Conover was so much more than I remember. I forgot about the times we were with Mr. Belota in a trumpet class during the summer. The times were we in an honor band hanging around under the bright lights of the stage. The times we'd spent at his dad's; with other friends, swimming, hanging out, and sharing conversations about challenges and triumphs.
Perhaps he could be called the day-late friend.
I wish I could see deep into him and know what he's thinking of me. I hope it's what I needed. Some king of sign? I wish I knew--but I can't read his mind.
It's going to be a great summer.