"Forgive and forget", they say. Looking back 45 years later, grudges no longer have a purpose. Yesterday, I discovered on Facebook of all places, that my very first best friend had died. Although peaceful and sober in the end, I learned that Chaz did not find his his purpose until the very end. God took him before his talents and dreams could be realized and before I could say goodbye. His name was Charlie. I called him "Chaz".
From Chaz I learned about unconditional love and acceptance. Lost and afraid in a small town, with no friends or prospects of them, I remained on the edge. I was a 7 year old outcast, anxiously awaiting to fit in, somehow, some way. I moved from New York City to a small town on the Great South Bay in 1963. I was used to playmates in the city streets, stickball, handball, Red Light, Green Light 1,2, 3. They welcomed me on my new block by throwing rocks and calling me four eyes. The next door neighbors were fun alright unless daddy was "in his cups" like the one time he taught us how to shoot a rifle in the basement and the other time his wife was wandering around town in her bathrobe looking to kill him. The kids were not that available to go out and play.
I learned to live in my head and in my books. But in spite of my book worm facade, I loved to ride bikes, play in the dirt piles and rummage through the model houses that were being built in the unfinished "development". I learned that my playmates were me, myself and I. That was, until the fateful day I met Chaz. It was a blustery March day. I had new go-go boots and a purple low rider bike. Feeling free from the neighborhood trolls and demons who would taunt me, I tore around the corner of the schoolyard block. Suddenly he called at me and said, " Girl, hey, girl, can I try your bike? You look cool, girl, girl. Hey, can I ride it, girl"? I was suspicious, but amazed. I stopped my bike.
There was something different about him. Although I thought he might be like all the rest, I took a chance. I never saw anyone who looked like him in this neighborhood. He looked tanned and muscular, but not lean and he had mass of straight black, long hair and big brown chocolate eyes. He asked me if I liked the Rolling Stones and if I wanted to go to his house. "Would you like to play with me?" This was such an unfamilar question, I had to stop and think.
His mother opened the gargage door and sat us on the plastic slipcovered couch. She has a complicated Italian name that I could not remember. But she served me a powdered pastry that was freshly fried with a cup of hot tea in a glass and told me to come back soon.
Charlie became my best friend immediately. He also was my protector. He lived right near the school, but he would walk by my house each and every morning to pick me up. Every day he would walk me home. No matter how the kids would rag on me or deem me an outcast, Charlie would be there to pick me up, walk me home and down some Oreos or Mallomars back at my house. When June came around, I wondered if Charlie and I would still be friends. In the summers, kids would go to Fire Island or the Great South Bay beaches with their parents. Would I be left alone without Charlie? But our friendship would live on and on, though Charlie had named his fee for what he wanted in return for protection.
We discovered rock and roll together. But he needed to be king. Charlie was the kind, king critic of rock and roll. Instead of having the dream of wanting to be famous, he decided to predict fame. He was the only 7 year old sophisticated enough to unravel the lyrics of The Beatles and endlessly debate the death of Paul. He inhaled Rolling Stone magazine before he could read Dick and Jane. Charlie knew that Billy Joel was a Long Island legend before he emerged from the piano bars, knew about Bette Midler when she played the baths, knew that Rod Stewart would be a legend right after he split from the Small Faces, bought David Bowie's first album and predicted that he would change the face of music and convinced me to get fake ID at 14 years old to see Barnaby Jones. At 16 we convinced our parents to drive us to the Nassau Colliseum. We waited 5 hours for Elton John tickets, and spent the glory days seeing the great Rod Stewart, Fleetwood Mac, Doobie Brothers, Jethro Tull, Gladys Night and The Pips, Alice Cooper and more, together. My fondest memory is when we saw Rod Stewart. Chaz convinced me to talk my way in to see Rod Stewart backstage. In my skimpy halter top, I squeezed past some unsuspecting Roadie, and got as far as seeing Rod walking from the stage to his dressing room. Both Chaz and I nearly passed out. To us, Rod was the God of the year.
Every day we talked until dawn on the phone. Mom would slip into the kitchen and never reveal to my snoring Father that Chaz and I were debating the top 100 on Billboard until 2 am. They called us Fric and Frac and we were an odd couple. Charlie was short and stocky with his mop of black hair and I was tall and lanky at 14, my response to the babyfat that would always keep me from the popular Susan's and Kathy's in the in crowd.
Where did it all go sour? How did we grow apart and when did we grow Universes apart? It happened when we worked together and I was blamed for something that Chaz did out of his illness that grew to overtake his very existence. Money was missing. They blamed in my incompetence with giving change. They let me go. Two months later, the owner told me it was Chaz. He stole money from the register. It was over 200 dollars. I found out they hospitalized him for mental illness and drug abuse. I tried to contact him, but his phone calls did not make sense. I was 18 then and on to college and the big city I went. I never heard of him again or from him again until yesterday. Through Facebook I found his sister. She told me the news. I think of the Serenity Prayer as I lie down and think of the young boy who was my only friend.