"Just Friends" by Stephen Anderson

     After inviting me to join him at one of those East Side Milwaukee taverns that notoriously caters to those who like to imbibe in excess — an offer that I subsequently decline respectfully, Mike shows up in my waiting room later that same day. Like a handful of “special” clients, he maintains a walk-in status at the clinic and is not expected to make appointments.

     On the surface, he has a menacing appearance: a pockmarked face and the black-brown eyes of a shark. He is known throughout the city for his volcanic emotional outbursts. Despite those things, I have grown accustomed to him, even though I still feel my stomach churn a little each time I see him. Turning him away is out of the question because I’m the only one in the clinic he’ll talk to. He usually needs to talk about the “little bearded Taliban men” and their “robe-covered women in black” who have been the phantoms in his daily life since his return to Milwaukee from Afghanistan in 2020.

    Several years ago when I met Mike at the clinic for the first time, he had nervously explained to me that he had been wounded in Afghanistan. Shrapnel wounds to his legs had caused his right leg to turn inward, and the left one to point outward, thus making forward movement difficult. Before I met him, he had caught my attention on more than one occasion as he walked down the sidewalks in the area around the clinic. He always reminded me of some poor creature impaled by an invisible hook, a wretched man who, like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, was doomed forever to a mangled appearance. In his case, one that would attract the attention of other pedestrians and motorists, the jibes and occasional ridicule of street punks, and the unlimited fantasies of children.

      And yet, like the tragic Hunchback of Notre Dame, there was an inner goodness, a special intelligence to this man that I recognized during the first session in my office. His outward appearance, monster gait and all, I have concluded, is a mask, a rough bark that hides what’s beautiful inside. He is much like the paintings of the late artist Alfred Sessler, whose lithographs were peppered with the twisted, supernatural trees of gothic forests, suggestive of weather-beaten human faces, all of those things ravaged and beaten by the forces of Nature.

      Perhaps it is this very awareness on my part that sustains me each time I zero in on Mike’s mash-potato psyche. “Mike,” I say sternly, betraying my sympathy for this most difficult of alcoholic clients, “Mike, how about telling me what made you slip again after eight months of sobriety?”

     “I can’t do it anymore, Gary. Megan is making me feel like she’s going to leave me. She bitches about me talking about the war. She’s tired of all of my nightmares and flashbacks. She won’t even be seen with me outside of the house unless it’s at night. I…I hate myself for boozing again, Gary,” he says, eyeing me fixedly.

     “What nightmares have you had lately, Mike?” I ask. And he tells me about the young man (maybe boy) whom he machine-gunned from his copter as the figure below walked alone across a rocky hill. Mike adds that he could see the man’s entrails fly out of his body as he was slammed against the rocky bluff below as Mike’s helicopter made a close flyover.

     “I actually saw that Afghani sitting across the counter in the coffee shop at the drugstore the other day when I sat down to have lunch. It … it was him, Gary, I know it. He was even wearing Taliban-style garb, and he looked directly at me, dead-serious like, but then gave me a smile, a big, beautiful smile, Gary — one that tore my heart out!”

     I notice Mike’s face turning beet-red now, and I know that his eyes will again burst into tears. Behind the grimace of emotional pain on his face, I spot the goodness in his heart. Even when he picks up a potted plant and smashes it against the wall on the other side of my office, I see it. There’s no way he can really hide it from me.

     Mike stays in my office for most of the afternoon until the pain subsides. We talk about the post-traumatic stress disorder he has suffered from for years now, his relationship with Megan and, outside of his AA sponsor, his lack of true friends. He wonders if we could just be friends one day when therapy ends.

     “Mike, you know that our relationship is a very special one, a very close one, but not that of just friends.

     “What I mean to say is, if I should someday bump into you, would you say hello and have a cup of coffee with me?”

     I want to open up and tell Mike about what I see in him but I recognize, at the same time, my own fear of having such a friend, of the potential burden of a friendship like his. Nevertheless, I tell him that, should we meet after therapy ends, a cup of coffee wouldn’t be declined.  

      “Gary, I’ve decided to not make anymore appointments with you,” Mike says, looking at my eyes to catch my reaction. “You see, I’ve got to make it on my own now, with just my friends,” he adds with a wink.

     “Alright,” I answer, after a slight pause. “The timing may not be right, Mike, but if that’s your decision, you have the right to make whatever one you want.” We shake hands and walk to the waiting room. “I hope Megan’s at home waiting for me, “ Mike says with a nervous smile as he exits the clinic.

     Two weeks later and after no further contact with or visits by Mike to my office, my wife and I spend a while sitting out on our screened porch. The early fall air is refreshing; the sky is clear and full of stars. I feel at peace inside as we sit with our arms around each other, letting our thoughts drift. Suddenly, we notice some children from the neighborhood making their way home down our cul-de-sac and the alley along the side of our house. They are talking in an animated way, but we cannot make out their words. They are also looking back down toward the entrance to the cul-de-sac.

      In the darkness, a large figure of a man moves slowly to the corner, and looks down our street. His massive hulk moves with difficulty. As he comes halfway up the block, Sarah whispers, “ Look at the way that man walks! My God, who is he!” In the shelter afforded by the darkness there on our porch, I turn to her and, with my index finger to my lips, I give her my answer. We then watch in silence as the man with the recognizable gait passes in front of our house and out of sight down the alley. I wrestle with the notion of whether or not Mike again is a captive of his imaginary visions of the Taliban ghost that has been haunting him. Or if it has been the infernal taunting of children that has aggravated him? Or if he was looking for me in what could be his last bid for the friendship that he perhaps hopes to have with me?

     The following day Megan calls me to ask whether I’ve seen him. I swallow hard and say no. She adds that he’s been missing for a few days when she’s visited his apartment, and has no leads as to his whereabouts. She’s checked Curly’s Bar and she’s driven through areas of town he goes to when he’s binging. 

     “I’ll let you know if he shows up here, Megan.”

     “Please do, Gary. Oh God, I hope he’s alright!”

     “Don’t worry, Megan. Mike’s done this two or three times before. He’s a big boy, and he’s learned how to navigate there on his own.”

     “Thanks.”

     “I’ll be in touch, Megan.”

     One, two, three days pass and no sign of Mike at the clinic. Out of a sense of therapeutic responsibility, I decide that I’ll do something I’ve never dreamed of doing before. That evening, after dinner, I tell Sarah about my relationship with Mike and that I believe that it’s my duty to help find him. She runs her hand through her long brown hair, while supporting her head with her other arm on the sofa. Her slender body doesn’t move, except for a nod of her head that signifies to me that she understands. I advise her not to wait up, and I kiss her goodnight, and am surprised by her suddenly grabbing me and pulling me back to her for one of her passionate kisses.

     By eight thirty, I’m walking into Curly’s. No sign of Mike, but I decide to sit at the bar which is populated by about a dozen or so men and women in their forties and fifties, all of whom appear to have had long-term intimate relationships with the beer mugs in front of them. I feel strange, like some kind of a rare frog in a fish pond. I order a mug of Miller Premium Draft which I later sip slowly, stalling for time.

     I feel a tap on my shoulder and I swivel around on the bar stool, expecting to see him. Instead, I am face to face with an elderly man who, I would guess, has slugged down mugs all evening, at least. He extends his hand and smiles, like an old friend. I wonder what the hell he’s thinking? What he wants? He just smiles and then, in a speech too slurred to be intelligible to me, expresses some kind of sentiment. I nod and smile back, and give him a wave as I swirl back around to face the bar. I sense him still standing there, obviously not about to leave.

     “Sammy, it’s time to go home now,” the bartender shouts at the man as soon as he notices him standing behind me. When the man doesn’t move, the bartender makes a gesture like he’s going to come around and personally escort him out of the bar. The man miraculously connects with what the bartender is threatening, and he turns on his heels and manages somehow, at a snail’s pace, to shuffle out of the bar. “ I owe you one,” I say to the bartender who then tells me he’s the owner of the bar, and that, coincidentally, he’s known Sammy ever since.

     “Oh, you must be Curly?”

     “Sorry, Dave’s the name. I bought out Curly back in ’98. Curly was just his nickname; he was really bald as a newborn babe. But he was the guy who brought this place up to where it is now. I owe a lot to him,” he said, proudly rapping on the bar counter. “You’re new in here, aren’t you?”

     “Yeah, name’s Gary,” I say extending my hand. “You must know Mike, Mike LaFond?”

     “God, yes, but I haven’t seen him for a couple of months or so.”

     “Any clue as to where else he might be? His wife’s looking for him. She’s pretty panicky by now.”

     “You some kind of private investigator or something?”

     “No, we’re friends, that’s all.”

     “Come to think of it, Gary, this used to be his regular night here. Maybe if you hang around a bit, you might get lucky. Another beer, Jefe?"

     “Yeah, sure. Might as well quench my thirst if I’m going to wait.” 

     Two beers later and I’m beginning to resemble the others at the bar. I’m still alert but I feel myself fading into the colors, sounds and people there. It’s then that I realize that my drinking these days consists of an occasional glass of wine or two at dinnertime. Mugs of beer, numerous mugs of beer, are really a thing of the past for me, like when I used to jog two miles every day.

     But now in Curly’s Bar, this is the present. I’m melting into something I haven’t felt in a long time. Someone has put on “Innocent Man” by Billy Joel on the jukebox. The lyrics easily penetrate my awareness and make me feel sad inside. For myself. For Mike. For everyone here at the bar. I remember Sarah and I decide to call her. When she doesn’t answer, I panic, but then I notice that it’s 11:45 PM. It dawns on me that she’s in bed fast asleep by now. I  head for the john. I’m hit by the stench of vomit when I enter, so I take a quick leak and exit as fast as I can. As I reseat myself at the bar, I finish up my beer and begin wondering just what the hell I’m doing out at this time on a weekday evening at a place like Curly’s. But here I am, a shrink and all, not connecting with anything here except Billy Joel’s song. I decide to leave and accept my evening’s losses. Kaput, finis! So what if Mike never resurfaces again? I’ve tried at least, and even gone the extra mile here looking for him.

     On my way to my car parked some two blocks away off on a side street, I see many shadows between the street lights. Unlike when I came earlier this evening, the street is practically vacant. The crowd back at the bar has remained and, I reason, is the only prevailing night culture around here at this hour. Try to retrace my steps back to my car. I turn off the street onto another, only to find that I have erred. I backtrack to the main street and head down another block and, in the distance, there is my ‘2019 Honda Civic. ‘Thank God!’ I think to myself, sensing that special relief one has after spotting their car in a strange airport parking structure after feeling lost with no apparent way out.

     Half a block to go and my confidence surges, but I’m distracted by someone leaning with his back against a building by an alley separating two apartment buildings. The figure is still, until it turns to look at me.

     “Hello, Gary,” the familiar voice says. He walks over to me. He’s very intoxicated, and his dark eyes are blacker than ever under the faint street lights.

     “Mike, are you okay?”

     “Sure, Gary, I’m just dandy,” he replies, his face grimacing and noticeably tightening. He grabs the front of my shirt and pulls me toward him until my nose shoves into his chin with the sickening sound of something dislocating.

     “Mike, I’ve been out looking for you tonight! I …I just left Curly’s and …” Before I can finish what I’m saying, Mike spins me around into the alley and slams my back against the nearest wall. Again, he’s right in my face. I’ve lost some of my breath and can feel my pulse accelerating in my head and neck.

     “You shouldn’t have let me go, Gary,” he growls through clenched teeth. “I wasn’t ready and you, like a fool, agreed to it! They’ve been at it again, the Taliban are following me everywhere, Gary!”

     Still gasping to regain my breath, I feel faint. Again, I sense the force Mike has as he spins me 180 degrees back around him and into the wall. This time my left shoulder takes the full impact; I fall to the ground in pain. At this point, I am practically pleading with Mike as I glance up and see his elephantine figure towering above in the semi-darkness of the alley. He pauses for a few moments, looking down at me. The last thing I see is the tortured look on his face, as a thunderbolt strike of his heel hits the side of my face, delivering me through the humid night air to the pavement below.

     As my eyes close out the glimmer of a nearby streetlight, I think I hear, in the distance somewhere, the word “friend” echoing down the empty street — the only thing I’m aware of now in this state of blindness, fragmented but with fractals of visions attempting to emerge, ones never before imagined in my most bizarre dreams, and for the first time in my life I feel a surge of warmth, like an indescribable fusion with Mike, and every other late-evening straggler on the street that night. Call it late-night reverie or a drink-induced epiphany, the effect is surreal. My thoughts race and distance, then connect into patterns that some would describe as due to a concussive brain injury. I am one with Don Quixote de La Mancha, Joan d’Arc and Vincent Van Gogh all at the same time, a place where logical thought is unimportant and where only things of the heart and soul matter. My initial thought races to consider attempting to follow Mike, a crazy notion of uniting with him to soothe his wounded, traumatized soul and magically extract his pain. 

     I instead opt for limping over to my car with racing thoughts of driving off in Mike’s exit route to see if I can locate him. After ten minutes into an unsuccessful mission to find him, I remember my wife back home alone and probably riveted with scary thoughts about my whereabouts. 

     When I arrive home, Sarah is camped out on the sofa, fast asleep, so I cover her with a light blanket and wash up before jumping into bed. Sleep comes fast despite the pain from Mike’s fierce assault, but dreams soon surround me as I collapse into the cocoon of nighttime.

     At breakfast the next morning, my thoughts center on Mike and the look of deprivation on his twisted, tortured face, the one I witnessed just before he made ground meat of me the night before. I figured that he must be monastic in his lifestyle, looking for friendship to make up for his history of neglect and his consequent attachment disorder. He had told me that he once attempted to live with Megan, but that she eventually left him for a woman she fell in love with. While Mike has not yet fallen into the abyss of having to live on the street, he subsists in a studio apartment just three blocks from the clinic where I met him several years ago. Through some mysterious alchemy, our relationship has cemented over those years. Now, in Mike’s mind, I represent a betrayal of the highest order: as someone who has rejected the part of his being that, brittle to begin with, has now shattered down due to a complex of personal history, the protracted war in Afghanistan, and now through the perceived rejection of his expressed need for friendship that he has admitted to. And so, with this conundrum, I decided that I will have to think hard and fast about how to reel Mike in to another therapeutic alliance. And the answers that I grasp at all fail me. And I know that I too am damaged goods with possible PTSD to boot. At this point, I realize that optimism is not my strongest suit.

     The clinic churns over the course of the next few months owing to an influx of patients pouring in with all kinds of problems albeit most not with the severity of Mike’s pathology and neediness. I know most all of the patients in our clinic, having sat through and participated in their weekly outpatient staffing. Then, one day, I spotted Mike seated just across from the receptionist. His hair was slicked back, he was clean-shaven, and his clothes appeared clean. By his side, sat a golden retriever mix. I approached him to chat, not knowing how he would act. Mike said, “When you turned me down, I had to look elsewhere. Meet my new friend, Gary,” he said with a wink. 

     “What a beautiful retriever, Mike,” I said.

     “Mutt is a better word for him, Gary! I picked him up at an animal shelter not far from my apartment. Megan encouraged me to see if I could find a dog, a nice friendly dog.”

     “And how are things between you and Megan now?”

     “Well, she stops by to clean and cook for me every now and then — even does my laundry from time to time. Brings her new friend as well, sometimes.”

     As Mike brings me up to date on those developments, his eyes remain fixed on mine, but I do not detect an angry stare. He pets his dog who remains seated next to him, and Mike all of a sudden smiles and winks again. “You know, Gary, friendship is really good, and one’s got to find it where one can, right?”

     I nod . “Absolutely, Mike. We all must do that sooner or later.”

Mike looked down in a way that reminded Gary of his childhood visits to the confessional to request forgiveness of sins. “I just wanted to see you one last time to say that I’m sorry for what I did to you the last time we met, Gary,” his eyes still lowered as though he is waiting for some kind of absolution from me.

     “Well, truth be told, Mike, that incident wasn’t really what I was hoping for at the time.”

     Mike raises his face and looks directly at me. “I came here today to say that, and to say goodbye. And you know that I am thankful for all that you’ve done for me, for all that you’ve had to tolerate because of our therapeutic relationship.”

     I pause a moment, and say, “It has been an honor and a privilege to know you, Mike.”

Without any further comment or closure, Mike got up, nodded at me, and led his dog out of the clinic without looking back.

     There have been many quiet nights that Sarah and I have shared on our porch, ones lit only by the moon and the stars. And I have had many thoughts about many things related to Mike’s journey through life. Above all, is whether he has finally found some semblance of peace in his otherwise chaotic life. And I wonder if his relationships with his AA sponsor, his estranged girlfriend and his dog have been enough to ward off his demons, his Afghani ghost, his own inherent complexity as just one among the rest of us flawed souls walking the tightrope of life. Funnily enough, it was Mike who taught me about the value of friendship, the burning need for human connection to protect us from the jackals out there ready to consume us whole.

                                                                     *****