Allen

Allen

When I was six years old, my best friend was a boy named Allen. He lived in a farmhouse across the street from my home in Oklahoma. We played many board games together sitting on his bedroom floor and watching the Dallas Cowboys play football on his small color T.V.  Whenever we spent time outside playing together it was usually a sport. He would become so enraged when the sun would go down and I would tell him it was time for me to go home. I remember walking down his driveway while he threw rocks at me and cried because I would not come back and play with him. This behavior led me to believe he really enjoyed spending time with me. I saw him on the playground one day and he had a handful of his friends who wanted to play a game of football during recess. Allen and I spent a long and active summer playing sports with each other and we became the best of friends so naturally I expected that he would allow me to join his game. When I asked him if I could join he looked at me as if I was a new kid at school and ignored me. My heart sank. Had I said something wrong? Was I not skilled enough in the game of football to be included? This was my first indication that something about our friendship was not quite normal. At his home I was his best friend; at school I was the other kid.
         I went over to Allen’s house one day to play with him. I knocked on his front door and his mother answered. When I walked into his house there were helium balloons hanging on the back of chairs, party hats that said “Happy Birthday,” and a pile of presents sitting in the corner of the room. I asked her where Allen was and if he could play. She told me he was outside playing with some of his friends. As I rounded the corner of his house I saw them all playing. There was about six of his friends and they were playing football. It was Allen’s birthday party. I was the other kid, only this time it was at his home. I ran home to get him one of my own toys as a birthday present so I would not be the only one who showed up without one. His mother told Allen that he would have to include me with his party. I felt like a squatter. They were planning to go to Malibu Grand Prix and play video games in the arcade and his mother invited me. She made sure I had tokens so I could join them, but it was clear that Allen did not want me to be there. I mostly played games by myself while Allen and his friends laughed and joined each other in two player competitions. As I was heading through the gate to go back home Allen told me that from now on I would need to call him before I came over to make sure he was not already busy. The city lines ran between our homes which meant my call would be long distance. This was his way of saying, “If you want to see me it’s going to cost you.”
Our friendship remained the same for a couple of years until I met a new friend, James. James turned out to be my best friend and we did everything together. I mostly lost touch with Allen until I was in my 30’s. Thanks to the advances in the internet and social media, I was able to locate many friends and check on their lives, however, I did not find Allen this way. I remembered his phone number due to the number of times I had to call him before I could go over to play. I dialed his number one day just to see what he was up to. His mother answered the phone. I was so excited and could not believe she still lived there. I expected that she would tell me how to find Allen. Without emotion in her voice she said, “Allen killed himself about nine years ago. He shot himself in back of the house. I thought I told you that.” Allen had come back home for a break from college, kissed his mom on the cheek and said, “I love you mom." He then went outside with his dad’s shotgun and took his own life. I had not spoken to her or Allen since I was 12 years old so this was news to me. Her statement ended my phone calls to check on old friends. I began to weep.