'WE ARE OUR FRIENDS'

         Out of the corner of my eye I saw the little white Sentra with a flag flying from its antenna zip into the parking lot. Pam had arrived. "Derek couldn't understand why it took Karen so long to get dressed and ready." That thought came to my mind as I waited and the clock neared half-past seven. It came from Pam's latest story. I had called her at six when I reached the hotel located in that very tony part of northern New Jersey just across the border from New York. She asked me to give her an hour to get there.

         I went to my room, read the paper and returned to the lobby to wait and watch as American business disembarked to check in for the night. Watching and listening to them occupied my mind for a while as I tried to keep my eye off the clock, but in time I realized I really did not want to do business with any of these people. So my thoughts turned to the two days of vacation that was in front of me.

         It would be a busman’s holiday attending a tax seminar but to me it was a vacation from the oppression of the cat and the care and feeding of the dog. The animals would have all the time they wanted to use the computer, watch television and do anything else they wanted. They would only be accountable three times a day to the Marigail Pet Sitting Service, a two women organization that would feed them, walk them and comfort them.

         The plan was that in the evenings my friend and I would be able to be together for the first time since she undertook a mission of mercy to my house in mid-October to help me when I was sick. Now she is entering the automatic doors that open into the lobby. She is so recognizable to my eyes, even with her hair up and fashioned into two little tails in the back. We smile the smile of old friends well met; she tells me she made the mistake of taking Route 17 rather than the Parkway. Traffic was hell. She asks if I have eaten dinner. I ask her the same. Both of us answer in the negative.

         We look at the hotel restaurant on a platform off the lobby floor. I remark that I have seen no one go in there who was not a guest and that hotels usually have lousy restaurants, so the front desk and general majordomo are treated to the sight of this late middle-age couple proceeding back through their august lobby. Mr. Majordomo knows they are not business people out for a night but thinks that they make a nice couple anyway, even if the woman is a little taller than the man.

         The god that inhabits the Sentra observes how at ease they are together. They have no idea where they are going but they are having such fun getting there. She gives him a tour guide’s version of what used to be in this area of million dollar houses. There was a farm there, her mother’s friend lived down that road and all has changed. They end up in a popular chain on Route 17 that does Southwest, Cajun and Tex-Mex.

         All the while Charley and Mrs. Valli keep running through my head. They came stomping out of my memory while I waited in the lobby and thought of Pam and I. Mrs. Valli lived four houses from me in Pennsylvania. She must have been sixty or more when I first saw her. She lived alone and seemed to do waitress work. On weekend nights a four-wheel boat, Cadillac or Lincoln, would pull up outside her house, sit in the middle of the street and wait for her. It was Charley taking her out on the town.

         I don’t know if his name was really Charley, and I don’t know if he was from ‘downtown’, as people in those parts call certain areas of South Philadelphia, but he had that air of a ‘made’ man. That he double-parked his car and blocked the street identified him as someone used to doing so. Double parking is a birthright in South Philadelphia.

         Later at night they would return. He would park the car and they would go into her house. Sometimes he would arrive late and simply stay the night. Without tugboats, parking his ocean liner could take the better part of thirty minutes. The story went that one night Bad Andy, the neighborhood tough, accused Charley of bumping his car. An argument ensued. Charley pushed Andy away with an open hand. Andy pulled a knife only to withdraw with his tail between his legs when Charley brought out heat. The story went that it was a small pistol, but size did not matter. No one gave Charley grief after that.

         This mating dance went on for many years and then Mrs. Valli seemed to disappear from the world. Her old blue Chevy Nova sat out front of her house but it was not driven. Charley did not come around. Her son Tony Valli, his wife and two sons came to live in the house and take care of her.

         The Indian Summer of Mrs. Valli fades slowly away as Pam finds our way back to the hotel. She has adopted that wonderful theory of my brother: ‘I don’t know where we are going, but we are making good time.’ She talks, she giggles, she makes the ‘night a little brighter everywhere she goes’.

         Are we Charley and Mrs. Valli reborn? Which one of us is Charley? Pam has the temper; I can’t see her packing heat but I bet she would take little crap from Bad Andy. The roles do not matter; what is important is that ‘we are our friends’. We can tell each other our darkest secrets and the things that mean the most to us. It is a luxury of life denied too long.

         We walk through the lobby, the widowed man and the widowed woman, and down the hall. Christmas is near. We have not spoken of it. In the room is a can of popcorn, a five-dollar gift. I have bought it for her to give her grandchildren when they visit. I hope I don’t embarrass her. I open the door; the can practically stares her in the face. ‘Oh, but I got you a gift too,’ and she hands me a bag with a gift-wrapped package: two videos and a wonderfully funny card. We smile at each other; ‘we are our friends’. Nothing left but to tell Willie to sing

‘Can I sleep in your arms tonight lady?
It's so cold lying here on my own
And I have no hold to hold on you
And I assure you I'll do you no wrong.
Don't know why - but the one I loved left me
Left me lonely and cold and so weak.
And I need someone's arms to hold me
Until I'm strong enough to get back on my feet.’

Author's note: The song is pure Willie Nelson. The expression 'we are our friends' belonged to Bill Russell, the NBA Star of long ago in commenting on a Celtic victory that clinched the World Championship circa 1969. It has stuck in my mind to this day; the grammar is awful but it expresses a sentiment so profound that no one should care.