Thirteen Objects

As another in the continuing steps I’ve taken to make myself more at home in the new office, yesterday I loaded Pandora on the computer and set up a great shuffle of artists to get me through these days of endless emails. Today a song called “At the River” came on, by Groove Armada, and it transported me for a vivid moment to the night of my Bachelor Party on August 30, 2001.

My Bachelor Party would have been the most boring thing in the world to be a fly on the wall for, but stands out to me as one of the best nights of my life. My best friend, Christian, came up in advance of his wife so we could have our night together before all the other celebrations began. Since my wife and I had maintained separate residences right up to the last day, I’d sleep two nights in my old place, get married, go on my honeymoon and return to our shared home, not setting foot in my place again, so I had to clear out my first and only bachelor pad at the last minute.

A caravan of friends and relatives moved what little furniture I was keeping over to my wife’s place, and then I set my horrible love seat out on the curb to be collected by whomever passed by, not envying them the discovery of its certified status as World’s Most Uncomfortable Fold-out Bed. It, along with my entertainment center and TV, was gone in less than 5 minutes.

So when Christian arrived, he came into a barren 600 square foot filing cabinet with exactly 13 objects in it:

1. A mattress

2. An inflatable mattress

3. A shitty clock radio

4. A 5-disc CD changer

5. A stereo amplifier

6. A speaker

7. Another speaker

8. The Joshua Tree, by U2

9. Play, by Moby

10. Vertigo, by Groove Armada

11. A case of Black Butte Porter

12. A bottle of Jaegermeister

13. A box of wet-naps

To be clear, there were no linens, pillows, cups, silverware, dishes, bottle openers, soap, or any other accoutrements to complement these items by way of creature comforts. I’m not including any items that were on my person, of course. Like my Zippo or the cigars in my shirt pocket.

Before this little space, I’d never lived on my own. Always with a girlfriend or roommates up until I turned 26. This was the place I came to after my first 45 days of being sober, to live alone. It was in a bohemian section of town near the river and the beautiful Owen Rose Garden. I found it reeking of dog piss so bad that you could smell it through the door from the outside. I'd steam-cleaned the carpets multiple times, eventually uncovering the fact that they were inexplicably purple. I laid new tile in the entry, painted the interior, put up all new blinds and curtains, and then burned enough sage and incense to drive out whatever evil spirits had kept company with the hippie glass-blower that lived there prior to me, until finally the space was mine.

Before there were such things as Spotify or iPods, I filled it with music, creating a continual stream from whatever would shuffle between five discs at a time on the CD player. I once had a man come visit who may be the only person I’ve personally met that had a real live demon in him. With the sage burning, lights down, and a shuffle of Phil Keagey, Kaki King, Sara Masen, U2, and Lucinda Williams, he said it was literally the only time he’d felt at peace in his life. I knew just what he meant, because it was the first place I’d ever felt like that, too.

The night of my Bachelor Party, Christian and I plunked down on the purple carpet, besmirched with stains and cigarette burns too incorrigible for even the diligent scouring I’d given them, and passed a bottle between us and smoked cigars. We spoke of the things that a dozen years of friendship bring out in you on the night before your life changes forever. We were at ease with the philosophical differences between us, while respecting that they exist. There’s a camaraderie that arises from drinking from the same bottle passed between you, after the biggest battles that friends can have are all safely in the past. It’s an acknowledgment that neither of you would be here without the other.

And so we listened to U2, Moby, and Groove Armada on endless repeat until the sun went down, because there was nothing else but the haze of cigar smoke, the pop of bottle tops opened with the edge of a Zippo, and easy laughter. And there was U2, Moby, and Groove Armada. For nine straight hours, U2, Moby, and Groove Armada. We shared the grace of two friends who are never more at their ease, in their element, or at home than when they are in each other's company. We mocked the other, searched one another, and talked until the sun came up again. Honest in ways that men can only be with each other, the frankness of our discussions born of a thorough knowledge of the other's blind spots, weaknesses, and idiosyncrasies; having gone at it with hammer and tongs through years-long debates, and emerging from the searing heartbreaks that only youth can produce.

And we sat on a purple carpet and let U2, Moby, and Groove Armada roll over us until an entire album would pass in a moment’s time, like a year passes with blinding speed to me today. The music and the sound of our voices echoing in that slightly haunted way that every empty house has about it. That’s it. For nine hours. Just that. One of the best nights of my life.

Because when I’m with the people I love and they ask me what I want to do, I always look them in the eye and say, “This.” Being with them is the whole point. If we do that at the movies, a restaurant, on a hike, or sitting on a purple carpet for nine hours, I couldn’t care less. Companionship is not ancillary to some entertaining activity, rather it's the entire point. I guess some people need a pretext, some activity around which to base the experience of fellowship and camaraderie. Not I. Because for me, there is nothing else.

I don’t even know what the hell any the rest of it is for anyway.