Friends

“You needed a friend,” said Eric, decades after we broke up. Over dinner, I had wondered aloud how we had connected, besides proximity. An artist, he also worked at Tigerfly, the small animation studio I managed in Santa Monica in the late 80s. Housed in the Crocker Bank building, we spent breaks on the roof, overlooking the Pacific.

I had finally left the Rat, a violent alcoholic who had first dated my best friend. On his good days, he was a bit like Benny in Benny & Joon: goofy. His silliness made me laugh. His philandering made me cry. And his temper… well. I’m still alive.

In contrast, Eric was sweet. When I craved cheese scones from Mrs. Gooch’s, he delivered. When I went on a fruit fast, he joined me.

We called his car The Hat, because that is what it looked like, a big black bowler. I can’t remember the make or model, but it got us around: to the Griffith Observatory, to his brother’s gigs (Bad Press was the band name), to movies and art openings. Jean Giraud, aka Moebius, had the studio next to Tigerfly, and both staffs mingled.

I eventually grew impatient with Eric’s affection. I found a plinth, a pedestal, and the next time he came to my apartment, I pointedly stood on it, and just as pointedly stepped down off it. He got the message, and one day outside my door I found a package of photos he’d taken of me, as well as drawings. He’d purged. And I was relieved.

But I regret the way I handled that ending. We didn’t speak for years after. I suppose I didn’t know any better. My role models… well. At least there was no screaming.