Waking the Dead

I have a friend whose father passed away this week. His funeral was a couple of days ago. The family had a reception after the private service and I ran into the ex. Truthfully, I knew that he would be there. And I was determined to look good when he saw me.

Okay, so maybe the focus of the day should be on the person who has passed. Sure. But my vanity got the best of me.

I got to the reception a little late. I ran into some old friends when I walked in. Then out of the corner of my eye, I saw the ex. And he was looking right at me. Of course, I knew I had to make it over there eventually. But then I saw another friend and a co-worker and then I had to go talk to my friend's mother, who apparently didn't know we had broken up and had asked him how I was. Awkward. We had a big laugh about it and then I went over to talk to him.

We haven't spoken. And I guess we still haven't really spoken, since we barely said 10 words to each other that day. He had these black/dark greenish thick rimmed glasses on. I told him it was very Swifty Lazar (an old legendary Hollywood agent who used to throw a famous Oscar party at Spago). Okay, so maybe comparing him to a fat, old, dead Jewish guy wasn't the most complementary thing in the world. But they're in the same business and I thought it was a complement. He said the glasses were more "A Single Man", the movie with Colin Firth directed by Tom Ford. I thought it was impolite to argue.

And that was basically it. Other than a few obligatory, "how's the business", "how are you" questions.

This is how it felt: strange. I had been harboring all of this nostalgia for the past couple of months. And I felt like I should have felt. Like a stranger in his life. Because our lives are divergent. But at the same time I felt like I always felt. Like a stranger. Sure, we had things in common and common dreams and goals. But his were all motivated by money, status and prestige. I should say perceived status and prestige. It was important for him to tell the story of the glasses and the fact that he got the $400 "cheap" version vs. the very expensive ones made out of bone. More than anything, it just proved to me how different we are in some fundamental ways. I want money. I want to be successful as a writer and get paid for it. I'm already successful as a writer because I can write well. That's a huge thing. But to parlay that into a sustaining writing career that's also artistically fulfilling is an entirely different matter. My brother said that he shared that story to show that he can afford something that I can't. Maybe true. I took it more that he felt he needed to show off because on some level, to potential or past paramours, he thinks that's all he has to offer.

When he really has to offer a sensitive soul, a flair for the dramatic, a brain that works overtime and a silliness that can be intoxicating. Unfortunately, it's covered up by a gouche desire to overcompensate, brag, showoff and dominate every conversation. Usually fueled by booze. And a lack of introspection about it all.

I fell in love with the former and the sad truth is that the other day he wasn't interested at all in showing that part of himself, which is the most beautiful part about him.