When Friendships Die: Alfred, Part One

[This is part of a series of postings I intend to be writing about those players that come and go, always in grand fashion, from my life. They’re the people who profoundly affected me but evenutally flaked away with a loss of substance and a lack of permanance, as far as friendship goes. You should at least read the introduction on this posting, about “Zsa-Zsa,” if not the whole story. I consider it one of my best.]

Al was an artist. A writer, a photographer, a sculptor, and a painter, Al was, more than anyone I knew, gunning for the title of “renaissance man.”

We first met when I was about 16, and Al then was a skateboarder with a furious passion for the music of The Cult and The Doors.

He seemed to be caught in this battle. On the one hand, being hip and cool meant everything to him, but on the other, he wanted the emotional content of hanging with the bohemian crowd.

When you were going out with him, you never knew which Al was going to show up; the one who wanted recognition and popularity, or the one holding out hope for world peace and a universal love for the aesthetic.

I always preferred the latter Alfred, the dreamer-philosopher with a passion for knowledge.

I remember long nights of conversation where we’d hang in my car, listen to some music, and talk. For some reason, music, conversation, and cars has always been a theme with the men in my life, and Alfred was an early pioneer.

Though our relationship was strictly platonic, I’d often lie with my head upon his shoulder, both of us reclining in the bucket seats, staring pointlessly at the ceiling or maybe at the city skyline beyond the windshield, lost in conversations I’ve long since forgotten, but I’ll never forget the mood.

* * *

I’ve had a lot of deep friendships in my life. The players, they come and they go, but their impact remains. Al, no matter what my friends today think of the guy they knew, helped make me the in-the-moment, Zen-loving, yet antagonistic chick I am today. His disposition was, at one time, very similar to the one I have now.

Al also had this untouchable aura of safety around him. In his presence, you felt like the world would just be deflected anytime it tried to touch you. Al was like a force field. Lying in his arms was one of the most comforting feelings I have ever known, something I honestly haven’t felt in years, and dearly miss.

* * *

Just before Al went to post-secondary, he did a summer program at the Emily Carr Institute for Art and Design, a world-class art school here in Vancouver. Exposed to inspiring bohemians, Al finally knew who he wanted to appeal to most: Artists.

Inspiration hit like a bomb, and Al was put into orbit. He moved away from those of us who’d been his friends. Not in a malicious way, just in a way that smacked of different sensibilities from old.

But when I went a few years without seeing Al, I distinctly remembered the last night we hung out, how incredibly arrogant he was about music. Not being a huge Doors fan then (still am not, but undeniably love their classics) and loathing the Cult, I was considered out of touch by Al, who was certain his tastes were unparalleled.

If you read my blog enough, you know what bullshit I think it is when people act superior. I’ve got no patience, man. Didn’t then, either. I didn’t make an effort to get ahold of Al after that.

* * *

So, a few years passed, but then we happened on each other one night.

Ironically, it was my birthday. I’d been seeing a wicked double bill feature at the Ridge Theatre with Curly*, GayBoy, and WhippedBoy when I ran into Al. The double bill? My request for Terry Gilliam/Johnny Depp’s Fear and Loathing: Las Vegas and Fonda/Hopper in Easy Rider came just in time for my 25th birthday.

Dinner for us kids had included magic mushrooms and a little dope plus beer. The groundwork had been laid for good times.

Hanging around outside in between flicks, we were smoking dope when Al came out. There he was, a lumbering red-headed giant. At about 6’3 and well over 200, Al cut an imposing figure. He had huge round brown eyes and an infectious smile with a gutsy belly laugh.

He recognized me instantly. “Steff! Oh, my god! Hey, baby!” We bearhugged and laughed about running into each other at a drug night at the movies. Back when Al knew me, I’d been radically opposed to drug use. (Sad, but true. I was quite the conservative, and quite ignorant, in my teens.) To find me there at a known drug double bill was pretty laughable for the big guy.

My guy friends stood back judgmentally, unable to handle Al’s big surfing beads, and just-back-from-Honolulu look, which was in between trends at the time. I knew at once though that Al was still firmly immeshed in his love for the suversively hip, and that comforted me somewhat.

For the next two years, Al and I would be back in touch. Slowly but surely, Al recessed further into the guy that dismissed my music tastes many years before. For an artist, the guy had an incredible knack for being insensitive at the craziest times.

How we fell out happened gradually with a number of instances adding up, and finally, the straw that broke the friendship’s back, prompting me to blow up and tell him to fuck off, this time for good.

That exciting story, Monday night.

Stay tuned.

(*Curly, an old photographer friend, was an employee at a sausage factory. He used to ride home from work on a bike and have dogs chasing him the entire way. There was a reason his house had a fully-enclosed paddock fence.)

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