Good friendships don't die young
A friend came by the other day and started talking to my sister about her columns. “Do you take criticism?” he asked. She laughed, “No!” He continued anyway, “Well, I think you said a while ago that you were going to write about me, and I’m just wondering when that’s going to be.” She sighed, relieved he was only joking, and assured him that one of her future columns would be all about him.
I overhead the conversation from my room and decided it was about time I write my column about somebody else. So, Tim Perry, you don’t have to wait for my sister to write about you. I think I’ll do it right now.
I can’t remember when I met Tim. He is one of those guys who figures prominently in your first-year nightlife memories, then somehow finds his way to your library table, then to your kitchen microwave, and before you know it is waking you from your futon naps. I used to seek Tim out to make me laugh. I wouldn’t ask him to tell me a joke; somehow, he’d just acknowledge some aspect of my life and find the hilarity in it. He’s funny like that.
Tim avoids the typical pit falls of many “funny guys.” He’s not masking insecurity or laughing at the expense of others. He’s just nice. I’m not sure if he would hate me for saying that, but if my theory is correct, then he wouldn’t be capable of that sentiment anyway.
Last semester I was getting ready for a Christmas party. Standing in front of my sister’s mirror, poised on one high heel, I stuck safety pins into the middle of my dress. I bent down to make sure my hair was straight and that my lipstick wasn’t all over my face. I moved about clumsily, pulling heels on, adjusting my dress, texting and chugging wine. In this intimate environment, Tim felt like a natural presence.
Why am I writing about Tim Perry? There are a lot of people I could write about. But days after overhearing his conversation with my sister, when I sat staring a blank Word document, Tim was all I could think about. I wanted to tell his story, to try and put him into words.
Until recently, I don’t think I’d given Tim enough credit. I’d been selfish in our friendship. I wanted to make him laugh in conversation, but I didn’t want to listen to what he had to say.
Writing about Tim isn’t easy. I want my story to be as good as all of his. His stories, be they real, exaggerated or completely untrue, are art.
I think when we say that someone is funny, we really mean that they can mold and morph words in new and beautiful ways.
I hope, one day, Tim will tell people about this column. Because regardless of what is written, I know he will turn it into a wonderful story.
Connelly’s column runs biweekly Wednesdays. She can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.