Two if by Sea

Last week, one of my oldest and dearest friends turned 29. This is alarming. I’m not alarmed at the number (wait – yes I am), but I’m mostly alarmed because while writing her birthday card, I did the math.

I met Marisa shortly before we started Kindergarten. Our Mothers thought it would be a good idea to introduce us, since we would be sharing a bus to school. She was cripplingly shy and I – as usual – didn’t feel as though I needed a new friend. So we stared at each other silently until our Mothers gave up and I went home.

That was the beginning of one of my most coveted friendships.

We were 5 years old. The math, is that we’ve been friends for 24 years.

Marisa’s favorite story about the fledgling years of our friendship is one that I vehemently deny, as it paints me as somewhat of an evil child. Well, maybe not “evil” but overly willing to laugh at others’ expense, which I am not proud to admit is so true.

Our Kindergarten bus driver was literally cut right out of the dictionary, where she could be found as the definition of “bus driver”.

This woman instilled the fear of God into every child who dared cross the yellow line. There was no standing, moving, talking, flirting, blinking, itching, smiling or – Heaven forbid – giggling allowed on her bus. If so much as a shirt sleeve became visible in the aisle through the rear mirror, to say she would go “apeshit” is a vast understatement. I swear, she would end a young life.

Marisa and I surprisingly enjoyed this, as it meant:

A) We didn’t have to talk to and/or make friends with other kids on the bus.
B) We still didn’t have to talk to each other.

Win/win.

As she still is today, Ris was the tiniest creature when we were 5. She was/is a little thing, with a small voice, and a sweet demeanor. It remains a mystery what she saw/sees in me. It also remains a mystery why (even though we were in Kindergarten), her backpack was the same size as she was, and certainly weighed more.

One morning, she boarded the bus, avoided the icy stare of the driver, and tried to slip into the aisle seat next to me. Its unconfirmed whether her back gave out under the weight, or her lifetime supply of My Little Ponys shifted inside her backpack, causing her to lose her balance, but Marisa did a cartoon back-flop into the middle of the aisle – backpack first.

She was lodged. Her backpack was immovable beneath her and she was attached to it. Panicked, she started flailing like an overturned beetle – unable to do anything to free herself except to desperately reach out – for my helping hand.

But my hand was occupied. It was pointing, and I was laughing.

In the end, Marisa’s life was spared and we became friends who actually talk. To this day, she loves to tell this story to people who think I’m a nice person.

This past Saturday, I celebrated Ris’ 29th from the middle of the Hudson River. When I wasn’t knocking into people, due to my poor choice of boat shoes, I was sipping (fine, guzzling) Greyhounds, and staring at the city.

Its amazing how perspective changes from the water - especially at night. I could literally close one eye, and crush Midtown Manhattan between my first finger and thumb, Godzilla-style. And I did, several times.

I was looking at land, thinking how ironic it was that from my perspective, it was like looking back at a sinking ship. The economy, the country and the world-at-large is going down.

Had I been given the wheel that night, I probably would have set course arbitrarily into the Atlantic and sailed until New York, the East Coast, and the entire country was nothing but a tiny spec of light on the dark horizon. And then, I'd probably keep going. Because when I wake up every morning on dry land, I feel like I am on the Titanic - and there are seriously not enough lifeboats.

I don’t see the need to outline the obvious comparisons, but I don’t know anyone who is standing on the bow of the boat of life, exclaiming that they are “The King of the World” anymore (well, aside from Chris, who - in the most literal sense - is incapable of being on any boat without doing so). Everyone knows we're going down, and people are clambering to save themselves - often, at the expense of others.

The way I see it is that rich will be spared, the poor will perish and those of us in the middle will have no choice but to fight, and struggle, and possibly survive.

So there I was Saturday night - drifting on the Hudson, feeling removed, isolated, and safer than I have in a long time. I had no interest in ever going home to the perils of our Country.

So I ordered another drink, and decided to enjoy it while I could. I then spent the rest of the night in the company of friends - telling old stories, making new ones, and toasting (several times) to another year of being in this together.

As we headed back to port, I realized that I really have nothing to fear - because I do have a lifeboat. I actually have several. One, I’ve had one for 24 years and counting.

And lucky for me, if I find myself flailing, Ris wouldn’t ever point and laugh.

Though, I’d probably deserve it.