Friendship, Alcohol, and an Important Life Lesson

I had a friend a few years back who was a lot like me. We worked together briefly before he was laid off, while I was spared the same fate when a co-worker retired. We stayed in touch after his layoff and became regular drinking buddies. He was an alcoholic; I couldn’t admit I was one, too.

We came from similar work backgrounds in law enforcement and corrections. He retired from the local sheriff’s department while I toiled in various jobs within the industry for 20 years before my mental health got the best of me. I was a few years younger, we had both been divorced for a while, and we each had two kids around the same age.

He was into country music, cowboy boots, and his Dodge Ram Power Wagon. He was a redneck and would’ve told you the same. It’s what I would’ve been if I hadn’t left my small, Midwestern hometown decades earlier.

He sported one of those dark brown horseshoe mustaches with just a touch of grey that looked like it belonged on his face. Like if he shaved it, he would become almost unrecognizable. It fit him. You could tell he once had a muscular frame, however, the years had taken a toll. Tall and thin, he sported a pretty impressive beer belly, but nothing that looked like it was cumbersome as it does on some men.

He lived in a double-wide on five desert acres away from most people. Out in the sticks, you could say. The dirt road leading there was full of washboard ripples that would tear your suspension apart if you weren’t careful. I could never figure out the right speed.

Despite the uncomfortable ride in, it was peaceful out there. Quiet. Contemplative even. You could see stars you couldn’t in the city since there was no light pollution to disturb the beauty. It felt like it was worlds away from “regular” life. We’d sit out in the desert, swig some beers, smoke cigars, complain about work and our exes, and eventually get into deeper subjects as the alcohol did its job.

We believed a lot of different things. He once told me the sky, stars, and planets we were gazing at while we tipped back our beers weren’t real. It was some sort of projection by the government, I guess. I didn’t know how to respond. He believed a lot of conspiracy theories, and we’d argue about them all, convincing neither of the other’s positions. Some things you just have to let go. I’m sure he felt the same. We’d then go back to drinking and enjoying the company, agreeing to disagree with no contempt for the other.

I saw a lot of pain in his eyes. I saw a lot of myself in his eyes. I think that’s why we got along so well; we had an unspoken understanding of what it meant to be us — two divorced men with young kids who wanted to be happy but didn’t know how. Depression was a common part of our lives. We suffered quietly, together.

I knew he felt alone. I did too. We were loners but liked each other enough that a visit once every couple of months to drown our sorrows in alcohol was warranted. So we made sure to do that. It was important. We were good at being alone, but it’s something we never wanted to be good at. Loneliness visited too often.

Over the years, we drifted apart and I hadn’t seen him for some time. We’d still text every six months, catching up as much as we could over messages on a screen. It wasn’t the same, though.

Then one day I got a text from a mutual former co-worker saying he had died. COVID had quickly ravaged his body of everything it once was. Of everything he once was. It was an unfair ending to a life that didn’t deserve it. Like so many others, it was way too soon. While I grieved for him and his children, I was also glad to have known him. Mostly, I wish we had more time. He was a good person — one of those people you know would do anything for you if you asked, but give you a hard time about it because that’s what he did. That’s who he was. I miss him.

As was the times, I imagine he was alone in that hospital bed when he died. I know he wouldn’t have wanted it that way, despite how much he enjoyed being by himself. It hurts to know that. It hurts to know that other people died under similar circumstances. He was one of many.

He taught me quite a few things during our friendship, but there’s one thing that has stuck with me.

What his death taught me the most was that it’s okay to be alone. But it’s also okay to not want to be.