Just Like Old Times

Took the train to Penn Station yesterday to meet with friends from Font, Hofstra's Literary Magazine. My friend John Ricotta, who is about to become a father for the first time, was trying to decide on a male name that would not subject the child to ridicule. I say that's nigh impossible given kids' imaginative capacity. It's a role of the dice. You hope the kid is good enough to make a name for himself. After all, without the buildup, the names James Bond, Indiana Jones, John Rambo and others wouldn't be cool.

"You were named after the dog?"

Another friend of mine starts summer sessions at the University of Minnesota next week, going for her secondary ed certification and Master's. I hadn't seen her since John's wedding last August, but we chatted as if it had been two weeks. Maybe there's something wrong with this picture; maybe there should have been something more indicative of the passage of time. Over the years I've learned there's no way to be brought completely up to date on friends' lives. Our meeting last night came with John and his wife about to catch interleague baseball games in Boston and Baltimore, my friend Deshant headed to Toronto for a wedding, and me preparing to get away to Maui.

There is some part of the best friends that remains constant; it's that part that friends recognize in each other from the beginning, leading them to become friends.