My best friend, Billy, would’ve turned 83 today. He spent his 62nd birthday taking me to the bodhisattva neurosurgeon god in San Francisco to get my fancy titanium plate screwed onto my spine so that my head stayed attached to my torso.
Even waited until he was sure I’d lived through the surgery before he returned home.
I wish Billy would’ve lasted as long as the plate. Even though he swore he never understood me, he made me feel better-understood than anyone else and it gave me strength when my chips were down.
His wife put up with our friendship for decades. She’d go read, or sneak booze, while we blathered away, solving all the world’s problems on his deck overlooking the ocean.
the nines 
Leave a comment