Make 'em Laugh

I had only two boyfriends in my five years of high school, Josh, whom I haven't seen since his wedding in the 1980s, and Rex, whom I haven't seen since Monday when we met at the Kingsway Theatre. Our friend Gilbert bought it, reopened it, and is renovating it. In that order.

The three of us admired the theatre, and I inquired as to when the old popcorn machine might be operational. Then we walked down the street to a bar where we remained for the next ten hours.

When we were in high school the three of us spent most of our free time (and some of our scheduled class time) at a certain corner table in the library, out of sight of the librarian, where we talked about things that, in retrospect, pegged us as the nerdy pretentious clique that always thought they were smarter than everyone else. Thing is, we were. Gilbert became an engineer, then a computer scientist, and now runs his own high-tech company. And though they were good friends back then, Gilbert and Rex hadn't seen each other for over twenty years, until I hooked them up last spring. Now, Rex is Gilbert's right-hand man.

"What is it with guys?" I asked. "I mean, you two were best friends in grade thirteen, and then you both went to U of T. How could you have never spoken in all this time?"

"We did!" countered Gilbert. "We went out for pizza once."

"It was good," said Rex.

Gilbert's always been one of my closest friends; we've been through a lot together in the two decades between high school and the Kingsway, but I hadn't seen Rex since the New Year's Eve we broke up. We had a fight in his car, just before midnight. I don't remember what it was about, and have asked him not to remind me if he does, because I don't want to regret the stupid things I did when I was young any more than is absolutely necessary.

Rex is the deep, introspective type. He doesn't say much, but he's always thinking, and he notices and remembers everything. It's intimidating, but then, I'm not easily intimidated. When we were dating I told him my favourite movie was Singin' In The Rain, and for Christmas that year he bought me the soundtrack. It wasn't easy to find; it was a French import. I still have it. I think I still have everything he gave me. Even the letters.

It was those letters — in a box in my closet in San Jose, that I'd been looking through one day last spring, on a weekend when I needed to procrastinate; before my world fell apart — that led me to look up Rex on Facebook. "Is that you?" I pinged, though I never doubted it was.

"What's great about seeing someone you knew years ago, but haven't seen for a long time, is that you always see them the way they were then," mused Gilbert. He's not usually the deep one; more the let's poke this thing then pull it apart from the inside and examine it type. But he was right. I looked at Rex, sitting across the table from me looking all the world like Jack Donaghy, right down to the smirk, but what I saw was the boy with the long, dark brown hair and big brown eyes. The smirk hadn't changed a bit, though.

We went through two waitresses, lots of food and drink, and a hockey game, and then it was time to go. My car is at the garage (that's the next story), and Gilbert had picked me up on the way to the theatre, but Rex wanted to drive me home, even though he lived about a hundred miles in the opposite direction.

I was glad he wanted to, but I was a little scared, and so I talked all the way home, nearly forgetting to give him directions in time for him to follow them. We took a detour through the Exhibition, just for fun, and for a moment I was 18 again.

He pulled up in front of my condo building and I had to get out of the car, I mean, what else was there to do? I felt like I should say something deep, but then I realized it wasn't necessary. This wasn't a deathbed confessional, and it wasn't a chance meeting of two people who would never see each other again. It was a beginning. So I said, "I feel like you're back in my life, now. I hope that isn't presumptuous of me."

He replied, "No."