Hey Matt
I bet you’re surprised to see this. Maybe not. I dunno. It doesn’t matter. Listen, lately I’ve been around a lot of tragedy and pain and old folks (who’re living embodiments of tragedy and pain); and you could say it’s given me some perspective on life. It’s gotten me thinking – you know what? Everyone gets sick. Everybody ends the same way. If I’m going to go tomorrow, I’d rather not go hard into the night wondering “Whatever happened to that feller I used to know?” Would I come back from the dead, a spirit weighed down by chains of regret? Would I moan guilt in dark loneliness, a mongol Jacob Marley, cooked books and broken promises heavy at the end of my shackles? I don’t know. I’d rather not find out when it’s too late.
Anyway, when a man thinks this way he gets to be apologetic about his past transgressions. You, old boy, are one of those “fellers” I feel I’d be wondering about when I’m near-off the mortal coil. Here’s why: I feel (and this, my parents tell me often) that I punished you unfairly during your time of great difficulty. With your birthday (and, as you may’ve suspected, Vic passing along sweet gossip), I felt this’ll be a great opportunity for me to apologize. You ready? Here goes: I’m sorry.
But (and there’s always a “BUT” when it’s me), let me explain why I did the things I did. You were a person I held in the highest esteem (like all the A-Gang). Yes, it was a respect that I may not’ve shown so obviously in our time together, but it was there. I held you in similar regards to Virg and Bob and other folks who I felt were bound for greatness and goodness (goodness especially). I don’t know why I think this way. Is it ‘cause ya’ll are perhaps a little too good to make it in this cruel world? Maybe. Could it be ya’ll are my opposites (Al-tithesis); all well-dressed, well-groomed, well-scented, well-mannered and very charming characters? Probably. Was I wrong in my assessment? Absolutely not!
Now you may think, during your time of failure, I lost respect for you. You’d be wrong. You may’ve thought, oh, that Al, he’d be hatin’ no matter who it is. And you’d be right! But understand that I don’t ever, EVER hate on people I like. I’d just as soon fool myself into thinking it’s all necessary in building character and other nonsense like that. Why, for years, I’ve fooled myself into thinking I’m an attractable, hilarious character. DO YOU REALIZE HOW MESSED UP I AM NOW?
In all seriousness, you should know I still hold that same amount of esteem for you. In fact, I’ve been wishing for your success ever since you thought I was bearable enough to hang out with. That hasn’t died. What has, though, and this is just my opinion, is the bond of brotherhood. You gotta understand, the reason why I couldn’t bear to see you around and why, to this day, I feel uncomfortable being in a conversation with you is ‘cause of that broken bond. You know, I love all the A-fellows like brothers and sisters (and the sisters sometimes as secret, unrequited lovers; the teases!). You were my brother, man! And to the end, I feel, I never stopped being your brother... but you obviously had. That killed me. Imagine if we were a couple: what you did was go behind my back with some dirty hussies, blow all our money on the cult you’re in, throw away your (and our) dreams to chase your crack addiction, and then, when you come home, pretend like you haven’t done shameful things while you were out. Like, film internet porno, or something. Anyway, you can imagine the feeling of seeing; of knowing, that what we had was as good as dead.
So can you even believe I’m writing this thing to you?
Who’s ever heard of the abused girl reaching out to the man who hurt her, hoping he’ll forgive her for loving him?
Let me tell you, I’ve been waiting and waiting for you to give an awkward, “I’m sorry” to me. For you to come around with your tail betwixt your legs and whimper a “you were right” as I sit cool on my high horse, wearing David Caruso sunglasses. Then I remembered – this is Pika we’re talking about. That guy’s one stubborn ass! I’d be on my deathbed, losing control of my bowels, wondering about lost friends, and you’d be in the bed next to me, refusing to even peek over your “EW” magazine at me soiling my gown, hoping that I don’t recognize you and get into “a talk.”
Well, you know what, life’s too short to wait for that shit. Here’s me, Whoopi Goldberg, crossing that dusty driveway to your dilapidated spousal abuse shack, and there’s you, Danny Glover, upon your porch with your ridiculous suspenders, and we’re giving each other knowing, forgiving nods. Then, movie magic occurs, and suddenly you’re Whoopi and I’m Danny, and the audience understands – ahh, that’s right, Al and Matt were Whoopi and Danny, Danny and Whoopi. Beautiful.
I don’t need you hating me, and you surely don’t need me being a smug little dick. I considered you my brother. Now, I consider you an old, distant friend - one that I have no interest in doing future things with but wouldn’t mind recounting tales over some sandwiches. I hope you’ll forgive my ice bitch act, ‘cause I’ve certainly forgiven you for breaking my heart.
And I guess, if you don’t – I hope you die, you rotten bitch. Slowly. Of oldness. After a long and fruitful life. Surrounded by friends and family. But with the faint smell of dead man’s shit drifting away from my recently deceased corpse.
-Al
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