Princeton

I am fortunate to travel to Princeton twice a year on business and this week is wonderful in New Jersey. It is good business, a good client and I like what I do with them and the results that come of it. It has been eight years that I have been working with this client, but feels much shorter. I never grumble having to board a plane to fly to Newark or Philadelphia and make the drive.

Princeton is drop dead beautiful. The campus is fantastic--more lovely than Yale or Harvard or any other Ivy League school. Princeton is a community and the university creates it. There is the township and the borough, you were from one or the other and it defined me as a kid.

I partially grew up in Princeton,New Jersey--I moved there from Southern California, which was a culture shock. I lived here when I was 12 to 15. Some of the most influential events of my life happened here. I made the best of friends, figured out that my mom was an alcoholic, learned that I could break the rules and get away with it. Defiance and guilt, all in one teenage brain.

I made two of my best friends in Princeton. Two friends who were important to me from the time we met in 7th grade at Valley Road Junior High. Both were the BMOC--lol, except one was female. The pecking order, even in 7th grade. They were the cool kids and I got to be a bit cool by association.

Carlos--I remember him so well--god, he was a beautiful boy. That little bit of Latin flavor, the beautiful tawny colored long hair and the smile to go along with the charm. I can still see him sitting, a bit slumped in the chair, in that too cool way during Mr. Holpe's social studies class. He was the center of attention and probably knew it. I remember thinking how amazing it was that he knew my name and was nice to me. I definitely was not in in his social stratosphere but that was Carlos. Friend to all, and friends with all. I had no idea how strong and fast that friendship would be, especially after he married my friend Chris.

Patricia-oh. The first time I met her was because the front office sent me down to the cafeteria to introduce myself to her. I hated that. The idea was that since I had moved to Princeton from California about a month earlier, and she had just enrolled that day from a school in California that we must be friends. WTF? I know California had less people then but come on.

I walked into the cafeteria in my very uncool gawky way and there, in the cafeteria line was Patti. With Marion P. --the most popular girl at Valley Road Junior High. And Patti was dressed like every kid's image of a chick from California should be dressed--in a maroon mini skirt, white shirt, maroon vest and--and--WHITE go-go boots. Oh lord, game off. No way was I going to even half way measure up to her total coolness factor. I mumbled something to her and ran out of the cafeteria in utter panic.

Years later, when I was Patricia's maid of honor we started telling stories about when we met. I still had all the awe of her that I had that first day--she had recently graduated from Johns Hopkins and was going to USC School of Law. We laughed hard at the memory of the first meeting and other memories we made for all of our friendship. Patti's mom was my other mother and I love her dad like crazy. Her brother and sister are the closest thing I have to a little brother and sister. Still are, all these years later and although I rarely see them, I love them like I did when I was 13.

I moved to Long Island just before 10th grade. Carlos and I lost contact until he married Chris. Patricia and I kept very close. She and her family came up to visit us on LI every Thanksgiving. Really good memories of family. When Carlos and Chris divorced, Carlos got custody of me and our friendship. It was a good thing.

When we were all 39 life turned cruel and horrible. Patricia was diagnosed with advanced breast cancer and Carlos died of a heart attack. I remember the call from Mark to let me know that Carlos was dead. I knew immediately, somehow, why he was calling and I remember sitting on my bed, phone in hand, wanting him to be calling about planning a party for Carlos. I wanted that to be the reason for the call. I made the world slow down so that would be why he was calling. It was painful for Mark to say the words that I knew was coming. He had been Carlos's best friend since elementary school and the friendship was still strong.

The first person I called was Patti. It was a long call about memories and stories. And tears. Carlos and I had always said that if nobody else wanted us, we wanted each other. We were always friends, nothing more and loved each other like crazy. It was a week before Thanksgiving, I drove from Connecticut to Princeton by myself for the funeral--the drive there was long and the drive home forever. I was so filled with sorrow and alone. I cried every single day for months when I drove home from work. My heart is still empty where Carlos nestled. One thing I know for sure is that I was graced to have had that handsome boy in my life for as long as I did.

A year and a half later, just before her 41st birthday, Patricia lost her fight against breast cancer. She left her family, husband and a six year old son. I had seen her at Thanksgiving when I flew out to California to be with all her family. The night she died I talked to her in the hospital--her mom said I was the last friend she talked with and I am honored to have that knowledge. Patricia was scared-she knew it was the end-it was the only time I really heard her be fearful. I asked her what she was afraid of and her answer was that she didn't know what was 'there'. My bumbled response to her was that I understood that and I would be, too. She said thanks for not b.s.ing her with platitudes. It was a good lesson in honesty.

I miss both of them. I can't think about them too much because the pain is real and acute. They were...or are...my closest friends. They took with them the memories of me and what I was like then. They left me with sweet memories of loyalty and caring. They both saw me through hard, hard times. I am lucky I had them. When I want to believe in a heaven, it is one where they are and I will get to laugh with both of them together and talk about Mr. Holpe and why he lived with his parents when he was 35--ancient by our standards. We were so innocent.

Music to go with this post: River of Tears, Eric Clapton