A Wedding Changes Everything

Fights, car thefts, party crashing and high school stupidity filled the dozen years that we were nearly inseparable. Girls came and went, as did those who tried to come between us. Hell, even his move to Calgary didn’t keep us apart for long. All it took was for me to tell my parents and his that I wanted to go to high school in Calgary, and I was moving in and attending school the next fall. That all changed with two words, although the downward spiral had been gathering momentum for a few years before that time.

I have few recollections of my youth that don’t involve my best friend Rick. Living only a block apart made us brothers in a really large acreage with too many houses between us. Our solidarity was expected, as we had no real brothers and shared four sisters between us. It got to the point where people just assumed we were brothers. I knew so much about his family, and he mine, that we could have interchanged for years at a time, and life would have gone on status quo. His sisters were my sisters, and I still get shivers and shudder with incestuous horror when I hear they both had crushes on me.

Most of our younger years were spent on his driveway playing street hockey. That is all we did in those years. Come home from school, run to Rick’s to play for a couple hours before dinner, eat, head back and play until it was too dark or the goalie had been hit in either the head or the balls one too many times. It’s funny, but the goalie never had a say as to how many times was too many. It was always a decision made by the shooters.

One game ended when his dad had to take me to the hospital, blood streaming from my cheek. Spring came late that year, and when it came we relished the opportunity to play in shorts and short sleeves. As the goalie, I always wore sweats and a hockey jersey; more protection. Never a cup, and never a face mask. Until that day. Until the day I had my own Jacques Plante moment. Plante nearly lost his nose. I nearly lost my eye.

We had been playing for hours, and the sun cast a beautiful hue right on Rick’s driveway; right into the goalie’s face. I can still hear the sound of the stick as Rick followed through. The tennis ball flew off the blade making a squishy sound. The rock that followed snapped off the blade, echoing against the lacquered wood. The rock hit my cheek first, ripping open the puffy skin beneath my eye. The tennis ball hit my chest and, unfortunately, I couldn’t control the rebound as my first reaction was to drop my gloves and cover the gaping wound on my face. As I fell towards the ground, Rick pounced on the rebound and let fly.

In the hospital the doctor told us about these inventions called facemasks. When he told us that this was one of the worst street hockey injuries that didn’t involve broken bones, we were quite pleased, especially Rick, knowing that he was the cause of the injury. When the doctor inquired about the tennis ball shaped lesion on the back of my neck I smiled and told him “I saved the rebound too.”

Eventually we were joined by other hockey mad-freaks who lived on the block. With the garage lights and streetlights it was not impossible for us to be out there until past 11 on weekends. Our parents knew where we were; everyone was safe and keeping out of trouble. It was a simpler time back then, and I’m only talking 20 years ago.

Other players and friends would come and go, but Rick remained a constant. We soon discovered a life away from his driveway. At first that life consisted of the mall or the local convenience store. It was a new place to hang and hanging was cool. Sweat pants too tight and too short, Adidas high tops with no laces, an Iron Maiden concert t-shirt, and a mesh ball cap to cover the mullet normally parted down the middle and we were set. This was before we really started noticing girls which was good because in hindsight, that’s all we would have seen of them; their hinds as they ran from us.

Neither of us had jobs, but we’d always get enough money to buy a Super Big Gulp from the 7-11. Our local 7-11 was where we learned the fine art of grab and go shopping. It started with free refills on pops and graduated to chocolate bars, chips and burgers. No matter whom they had working behind the counter, we couldn’t be stopped. One day, when the manager was outside, I told him that he should hire more attentive staff. He asked why, and I told him I could walk in there, grab a coffee pot from the back of the store and walk out and none of the staff would notice. I walked in, grabbed a full pot of coffee, and walked straight out again. Not one head looked up from behind the counter. The manager retrieved the coffee pot, shook his head in disbelief, and I was never allowed in the 7-11 again. Rick got them to add his picture beside mine behind the counter. He didn’t want to feel left out I guess.

I saw my first naked woman on the way back from that same 7-11. I would have been about 13 and was returning from one of our twice daily Super Big Gulp runs. Walking home around noon on a Saturday - mid June, sunshine, and no breeze – we passed a house on the corner when we heard a SLAM against the window. We looked up; this woman was naked, breasts pressed against the window, her lover behind her. Naturally we stayed and watched. We even applauded when he was finished and she stood up giving us the full show. He fled from sight; she smiled, did a little twirl, and then shook her breasts for us. The street hockey afterwards seemed uneventful and boring.

Acid wash jeans soon replaced the sweats and mesh tank tops could fill in for the various black bodied concert shirts with the white ¾ length sleeves. I bet Rick still has several of those shirts. He was simple. Would have been charmingly simple if not for his temper, competitive streak, and ability to “fall in love” with every girl he ever dated from the age of 14.

I used to envy him. He would always come home from school chirping about this new girl he had talked to and was dating. For Rick the natural progression in the dating world went - find out her name, talk to her, date, kiss, make out, remove her bra, and see how far it goes. This was usually a week-long journey. And seemed to happen every week. I didn’t quite get it. I didn’t see what was so special about him. He was a pretty good street hockey player but that was it. Put him on skates and all the co-ordination would disappear.

He never had nice teeth. Both he and his sister Kerri had problems with cold sores too. They were huge, blister like spots growing from the same corner of their bottom lip. Just as one would disappear another would form. And his hair was an unruly blend of knots and curls, never shorter than his shoulders, and seldom washed more than once per week. For the longest time I thought he had a diamond earring because he always seemed to have a whitehead growing in the same spot on his earlobe. It took until he started his first full-time job at 20 for him to discover deodorant. But still, the girls seemed to like him. He was always a little stockier than I was and thought of himself as the neighborhood bully because of it. He was the oldest, five months my senior, so he thought it was his right to be in charge. Nothing about him stood out as impressive or beautiful, yet he would meet all these girls at school.

Perhaps I was envious because he could actually talk to girls. I never could, and it was years before I actually tried to “pick one up.” Maybe I was envious because the girls at his school seemed to have a different set of standards than those at mine. It would have made no difference to me which school I was at. My wardrobe consisted of sweats, rugby pants, too tight acid wash jeans and t-shirts, and my hobbies were soccer and hockey. That was it. There was nothing more. My hair was never combed. I was straight off the Beatles “Hard Days Night” album cover, the album cover with the pictures of just John, Paul, George and Ringo’s heads and that album was 20 years old and John Lennon was dead already.

Perhaps I was envious because Rick was strong. For a short kid, with slow reflexes he was strong. Always a little stronger than I, and it used to bug me when girls in the neighborhood would comment about his “muscles” – Rick would always wear sleeveless vests and tank tops during the summer - and he’d stop and smile his awful smile. He’d often walk off and leave me carrying all the stuff from our 7-11 runs, only to come back later with another phone number. His simplicity made him unaware how completely unattractive we were and his confidence suffered little from it. I knew I was a scrawny geek and my confidence suffered greatly. I wanted to be different, but my brain knew otherwise. Rick’s brain thought only of girls, street hockey and Super Big Gulps.

We spent less time in his driveway and house and more time just getting away. At first I thought it was just us growing up, feeling the need to move on, but my year living with his family changed my perspective. His Ukrainian father and Irish mother would never leave the house unless it was to go to work or buy groceries. Both quick tempered and set in far too traditional roles.

Rick’s mom would do all the cooking, every day and twice on Saturdays and Sundays. No one else in the house would grab a pot, turn on the stove, or even open a can of soup for her. She was the happiest of the family when I moved in as it gave her the opportunity to give me the task of doing dishes for her. Rent and dishes in exchange for food and lodging. A fair deal I suppose, but a deal I wish I had never made.

We were sitting outside the same 7-11 when Rick told me his dad had been transferred to Calgary and that they were moving. I was losing my street hockey partner, my 7-11 buddy, my best friend. Jokingly, I asked him if I should come too. It took two years, but I made it. While at high school in Edmonton I discovered that playing sports in the gym was more exciting than math review. Unfortunately, the powers-that-be at the school thought removing me from school was the best possible lesson that my high school years could provided me.

I didn’t want to go to the schools my parents liked, and I knew the same thing would happen if I went back to Harry Ainlay High School, so I asked Rick’s parents if I could live with them and go to school. Rick’s dad was an accountant with a university education, and admired my desire to educate myself. Once my mom stopped crying like I was leaving her forever, the move went through.

I got there in early August, and Rick and I spent the rest of the summer re-building the basement that was now ours. We even had a hockey pad were we could take shots against the bare concrete wall. The move was going to be a new start for me, a start that my best friend would help with. I always felt good around Rick, and this was no different. He had that gift. Whenever we were together, we were smiling and laughing. Simple really, but it all came down to laughter and being happy.

My start was good. I found a part-time job, got good marks, and made lots of friends. Our basement became the place to be. Rick was funny and had no desire to show off or be the boss. Everyone was equal. Even Rick’s parents would come down and laugh with us. But, eventually, the outside world was necessary.

It soon became necessary to leave the house as often as possible. The house stunk of french fry grease and cigarettes. The yard a pleasant mix of dog shit and empties. Mowing the lawn was like running in a steeplechase event; around this, over that. More and more I saw Rick emulating his parents. Before coming home from work every day, either his mom or dad would stop at the liquor store and buy a bottle of Canadian Club rye and a case of Pilsner beer. Every day this would have to be repeated. Weekends were worse of course. Neighbors refused to come by after awhile, and friends from school would feign illnesses or deaths in the family to avoid coming over. I lost count of how many times I was stuck in the basement, listening to the screaming and yelling, waiting for Rick to come home from work so we could leave. I never felt comfortable walking out of the house in front of Rick’s dad.

Rick’s dad, Richard, had very dark eyes and an exceptionally furrowed brow. Whether he was looking at me or not, his stare unnerved me. A short, thick man, he worked on a farm until he was sixteen and then turned to construction. Now, as an accountant, he always had a look that told you he longed to hit something, someone. He was a brawler as a kid, and still wanted to be one. I had seen him hit Rick, his wife and two girls and knew that I would be no exception if he had reason. I took to curling up in the basement with a book, even the phone book, to limit my interaction with him. He never laid a hand on me, but I thought, and still do, that he believed he should have.

The closest he came was the night he found out his safe had been opened. Quite by accident, he stumbled upon it when drunk and noticed that the door was ajar. When he regained full analytical and motor functions he discovered that ten $100 bills and sixteen $50 bills had been taken. These bills were printed in 1952 and in impeccable condition. I came home from school, walked through the door, saw the broken chairs and wanted to run.

He walked me against the wall, and for the first time he towered over me. Although a full three inches shorter than I was, he looked down at me that day. His arms were folded in front of him, his nose inches from mine. I could smell his breath. Not a trace of liquor on it. He calmly asked me about taking money from his safe. He never blinked. Without a pause I replied that I didn’t even know about a safe. That his bedroom, and the bedrooms of his daughters, was a place I had no business. He unfolded his arms, and raised his right hand, his strongest arm. His eyes closed, and then mine. He slammed his fist so hard against the wall above my head he broke his wrist and the wall.

I cowered in the basement not knowing if he believed me or not. I knew Rick was stealing the money but couldn’t tell his dad that. Rick was scared to tell his dad, and even suggested that I move away and leave a note saying I did it, and he’d pay his dad back for me. I was going to, knowing Rick wouldn’t fess up, until Rick’s mom came down holding her arm and crying, and Rick confessed. His dad never looked at me the same after that. His look was always measured, guarded. I, for not telling about Rick, was just as guilty. I should have just broken into the safe myself. When he raised my rent it proved my point.

At this time both Rick and I actually cared about our appearance. Hair cuts were more frequent and the sweat pants were discarded for jeans and slacks. While I looked the part of the ladies’ man, I still couldn’t talk to them. Rick still met girls, many of them his sister Kerri’s friends, and the same week-long dating regimen took place. It usually took a week for them to realize that Rick wasn’t the cool older guy they had hoped. I still wanted to be him, in these moments, but was happy the way things were. I was the better man for making him feel better. That’s why it was sad when it ended.

He bought a guitar, played it twice, and smashed it when his latest “love of his life” wanted to go out with me instead of him. I said no. Rick was my best friend, a slightly mad and simple one, but I would never do anything to hurt him. I turned down a dozen or so girls because he liked them. He only knows of the one.

And then he met the love of his life. They met at karaoke, Rick’s favourite pastime, and began dating the next day. Within months they were talking marriage, and Rick had bought a ring. Once she had the ring on her insecure yet spoiled little finger, Rick’s eyes closed to the rest of the world.

By this time I was living on my own in Calgary. He was rarely at the house, and I felt terrified being there alone with his dad. I took a full-time job for the summer and moved out as quickly as I could. The apartment was tiny, dingy, smelt of the last owners - four East Indians and a cat. But it was mine, and only Rick knew my phone number and address. Once I moved out, struggling to make ends meet, but determined not to go back home or to Rick’s parents’ house, I found out about life without Rick.

I had already begun to see less of Rick but still talked to him daily. He was bouncing around from job to job, brewing his own beer, and moving in with Melissa. They moved into her parents’ basement, and they soon were both unemployed and lazy.

I kept on struggling. My job sucked and life back in Edmonton was starting to sound good again. My first attempt at living on my own wasn’t a complete disaster, and I’m sure I would have made it with a little help. But that help never came. He had Melissa to help now.

I defended him to the death when word got out that he and Melissa were going to apply to Habitat for Humanity for a house. I was insulted by the both of them, thinking that they needed such charity when all they needed was a kick in the ass. But he was my friend, and I told everyone he wouldn’t end up like his dad, and he would achieve some form of success. I consoled him over the phone for three hours when they were declined. Secretly I wanted to go down to the head office and shake the hand of whoever was responsible for declining their application.

I moved back to Edmonton, but we talked weekly. It came as no surprise when he asked me to be his best man. Even though I hated the woman he was with, I would stand up for him. Even though her family would not let me eat dinner with them at their table, I and the nephews got the small card table in the den, I would stand by him. Even though her mom sat me down and told me about the dangers of chasing women and how unattractive that was in a man, I would stand up for him. Even though Rick sat back and let her family persecute me without knowing me, I would stand up for him. Persecute me for the sins that Rick had done, unknown to Melissa. I was about to turn 22 and had had one girlfriend my whole life. Rick had had three in one day once. I was still going to stand up for the guy who was my best friend. The lure of a free home, a free car, and daily sex from Melissa was just too much for Rick to lose by defending me. I understood it then. Now I see it as the lack of character that I always thought wasn’t true about Rick.

To this day, I have no idea why Melissa’s parents treated me so poorly. Whenever I was around them, or Melissa, I was polite and considerate. I helped Rick and Melissa move twice, for little more than a thank-you, but it’s what you do for friends. Maybe I didn’t buy into their “Melissa is our perfect daughter” mentality enough for them? Okay, I didn’t buy into it at all. Her complete lack of desire to work for a living made me quiver with hatred for her. I was raised believing that you should work for the things that you want. I’m glad I was. I thought Rick was too. Rick’s dad never had a thing that he hadn’t worked for. That is the one thing I still respect him for. The only thing I respect him for.

I always defended him when things got tough. I always took the brunt of the abuse when Rick would start trouble and duck out. I had a pool cue thrust into my chest, not breaking the skin or causing me to bleed, but painful nonetheless, because Rick told some guy at karaoke to “put your shirt on you fat fuck” before slipping out the door to leave me by myself. If my years of bullshitting soccer coaches, teachers, my parents and girls hadn’t been extensive, there is no way I would have got out of that situation needing only to buy two shots of Tequila for six people. I never realized that he was never defending me.

The wedding was a nightmare. I was not given a place to stay, so I scrambled to get a hotel room on the August long weekend. I paid for my own way to Calgary and for my own tux. At the dress rehearsal, the maid of honor wanted to do the walkthroughs with her boyfriend instead of me and this was accepted. Rick stood back, watching sheepishly; afraid he’d be cut off by his lazy, demanding wife-to-be. Apparently, no one knew that Darren, the boyfriend, would be in town for the wedding, so the reservation was one seat short. I had dinner at the pub. Met some friends, and a girl, and still defended my friend.

I was standing at the front of the church with Rick. I wanted to comment that there were only two of his friends in attendance in a church full of people, but I bit my tongue. I knew why his friends weren’t allowed at the ceremony. If I hadn’t been the best man, I wouldn’t have been allowed either. We were all bad influences on Rick, and we couldn’t be around to sway him away from Melissa. We were laughing about the fact I brought some girl whose name I don’t even remember to the wedding when Melissa’s dad approached us. He shook Rick’s hand, turned to me, and I held out my hand. He spoke, loud enough for the first few pews to hear, “I hope you have the rings and didn’t pawn them off for that whore.” I smiled, told him she only took cash, and walked to her pew and planted one on her.

The rest of the wedding ceremony was a breeze. The rings were presented when called for, hand polished that morning, and I gave a slight chuckle when someone accidentally sneezed when the father asked people to “speak now or forever hold your peace.”

The reception was a blur. Making a guy with a speech impediment an emcee at a wedding is just silly, but making him an emcee at a Ukrainian-French wedding is even sillier. All in all the duty was handled well. The stories I told about Rick and me never mentioned girls, his temper, or his penchant for shoplifting. A remarkable feat, considering that is where most of Rick’s accomplishments lie. I never got to dance with the maid of honour; that role was Darren’s. If I hadn’t brought a date it would have been a long night for me. Well, longer than just Tequila I guess.

The day after the wedding, I left for Edmonton without going to the gift opening. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to sit in Melissa’s parents’ basement while everyone else oohed and aahed at the gifts upstairs. I had my thank-you gift in my bag; a previously viewed copy of Billy Joel’s Greatest Video Hits, Volume 1. I don’t even like Billy Joel. One $6 video tape was all I got for being the best man and emcee. Her brother was an usher and received a watch. I still defended him and wished for his happiness.

That was nearly 13 years ago, and I’ve talked to him about a dozen times since then. He has three kids whom I’ve never met and a steady job at Costco. Melissa still doesn’t work, for whatever reason, and they still apply for housing. Last I heard they bought a car, from her brother, and they bought a dog on payment plans from Petsmart. His head is shaved now, and he’s added a belly to his stockiness. The spitting image of his father at that age, complete with the reddish nose from too much rye. He called the other day but had to hang up when Melissa enquired who was on the phone. I didn’t know what to say when he said “Hey, buddy, its Rick,” so I just replied “long time”. The silence that followed was brilliant. I couldn’t have written a better conversation if I tried. I heard all I needed to in his pauses and exhalations. The years of defending him had been brilliantly summed up for me. He had nothing to say. I just didn’t want to speak.

I’m getting married soon and haven’t decided if I’ll invite him. He’s never met my fiancé, never seen a picture, or said a word to her. I’m done defending him and his choices. Part of me says you can’t turn your back on a dozen years of friendship, and the other part says invite him just to receive his news that he and Melissa can’t afford to attend the wedding. Another part of me, and the one that, frightfully, seems to weigh quite heavily in my thoughts, says to invite him to prove that I was better all along.

It wasn’t too long ago that I still thought he’d be my best man. As the old adage goes, “an eye for an eye.” But then I thought what his speech would sound like and it scared me. Plus, it’s hard for me to buy a second-hand video for myself, let alone for anyone else. If character was a trait that he possessed it wouldn’t have come to this.

In reflection, I’m not sure it was his lack of character that kept us apart. Rick was my best friend for 12 years, but it was a different kind of friendship. He needed me for stability. Other people came and went, but I always remained. I needed him to make myself feel better. The relationship was purely out of greed. Being around Rick made me feel like a better person, and that is what I wanted. Not a better person compared to the person I once was; a better person compared to him.
By the time I grew into my dimples in my early twenties, I was done needing Rick. We had used each other long enough, but couldn’t let each other go. That changed when he said “I do.” He also said goodbye.