SHORT FICTION

Friends and Differences

Over a Santa Barbara breakfast

I received a call from an old friend who recently visited California on a business trip. He wanted to meet me for a late breakfast, and I agreed. I hadn’t seen him since my mid-twenties, forty years ago, and I wondered if we had anything in common.

His name was Benny Cutler, and we had been friends since kindergarten. In high school, he grew into a handsome young man who attracted the cutest girls while I was his follower, getting sloppy seconds.

We drifted apart because of political differences. Benny was a Conservative, and I was a Liberal. I focused on politics that helped people, animals, and the planet, while Benny worshiped tax breaks and the all-mighty dollar.

I chose a quiet cafe with plenty of sunlight, and the Santa Ynez mountains were visible in the distance. I got a table and waited for about fifteen minutes. He pulled into the parking lot with a rented Land Rover and didn’t recognize me. I stood up and waved.

“Hey, Benny,” I said, hugging my friend.

We looked at each other for a few quiet seconds, seeing how much we had changed. He was still six inches taller and was in good shape, while I had a middle-aged belly, balding, and a whitish beard.

“Nice to see you,” I said. “Where are you staying?”

“At the Ritz-Carlton,” he said proudly.

Some things never change. He still lived lavishly. Money was the God he worshipped daily. I would soon learn that he followed the stock market as much as I checked my blood pressure, and he probably counted his gold coins more than I monitored my sugar count.

“Are you still a computer programmer?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I own a computer consulting company now, Harry.”

“Wow, you must be doing well.”

“Fabulous. I bought a summer house in Ocean City with an Olympic-size swimming pool and in-ground Jacuzzi.”

What a braggart. Even in high school, he boasted about his new Adidas, his Bulova watch, and the sky blue Karmann Ghia, his dad, bought for his sixteenth birthday. He was born with a silver spoon, but now that spoon had turned to gold.

“You look different, Harry,” he said while glancing at the bald spot on my head and wire-rimmed glasses. “Kinda like an old Jerry Garcia.”

“Yeah, sometimes I look in the mirror and wonder who that person is. But you haven’t changed a bit, Benny. You’re the same good-looking kid I knew in high school, except for the little graying at the temples.”

“That’s because I have a Mediterranean chef.”

I nodded to show how impressed I was.

“How’s your wife, Natalie?” I asked.

“Oh, that was my first wife. I’m on number four, Harry. Her name is Jennifer, and she’s only thirty-four and comes from a wealthy family in Connecticut.”

“How did you meet her?”

“She used to work for one of my suppliers.”

“Nice,” I said. “I’m still married to wife number one. My two kids settled in other parts of the country, so I seldom get a chance to see them.”

Benny ordered the Mexican dish, Huevos Rancheros, and I had avocado on toast. He liked his coffee black, while I had a latte with a pinwheel design. And once we started eating, we recalled some of our memories together.

“Remember when we opened up a water ice stand in front of the Acme?” I asked.

“We were doing good for a while until the store manager said we couldn’t use their electricity.”

“A bummer,” I said. “All the water ice melted — and we lost our money.”

“And how about that time we stiffed the Hellerman Diner and ran out before paying the check?”

“Yeah, I still feel guilty about that. I never told you, but I went back the next day and paid.”

“Why did you do that? That spoiled the whole story,” Benny said with a smile.

I didn’t realize how many memories we shared. And there were more we never talked about, like when we picked up those two women at a downtown bar and went to their place and had a Bob, Carol, Ted, and Alice. Or when we parked on a New York state highway to attend the Watkins Glen Rock Festival in 1973. We walked around in the rain, our feet soaked with mud — but we ended up sitting in the front row when The Grateful Dead played, and later we shared a tent with some cute hippy girls.

Our reminiscing stopped once we finished breakfast. We fumbled for things to say, holding our coffee cups tightly in our hands and looking at the time.

“Well, what do you think of Santa Barbara?” I asked.

He hesitated. “It’s okay,” he said. “But I prefer San Diego — it’s warmer. How do you like living here, Harry?”

“Wouldn’t want to live any other place, Benny. Great weather, food, mountains, and ocean views. It’s called the American Riviera.”

“I’m glad you’re having a good time, Harry, but the world is going to hell in a handbasket. I know we’re two of the lucky ones, but I look all around and see homeless everywhere. People are fighting with one another over politics, and every day there’s a new virus.”

Wow, I never thought Benny worried about the state of the world. I was impressed.

“You know, Harry. I’m thinking of doing something about it.”

My face lit up. Now he was talking.

“Volunteer at a homeless shelter? Donate money to an environmental group? Reduce your global footprint?”

“Hell, no!” Benny said. “Not any of that liberal crap. That’s money down the drain. I’m going to donate money to the NRA. We have to safeguard ourselves. These malcontents are desperate — I gotta protect my family, property, and valuables.”

“That will only make it worse,” I said. “You can’t blame the poor and disenfranchised for all the world’s problems.”

It wasn’t pretty after that. Benny lectured me on how the poor were soaking up our government’s money. I didn’t say anything more, sipped my coffee, and realized no matter how old people get, they never change. And in the case of Benny Cutler — he got worse.

Despite our differences, we were still a part of each other’s lives. We exchanged a friendly goodbye, and every Christmas sent cards with a note attached, wishing each other well. And despite our differences, I still wanted Benny to be happy.

© 2022 Mark Tulin

Here’s another story by Mark Tulin: