August 1, 2001

 mfinley.com   ` 
"My Breakfast with Eugene"

by Michael Finley
(c) 2001 by Michael Finley

An old friend and I reenacted an old ritual, the Sunday brunch, at an upscale downtown eatery. Twenty years ago, in the heyday of our friendship, we did this practically every week. But with the passage of years the habit died away. Despite the gray hairs, and a few missing hairs, we were the same men deep inside, assured of one another's confidence.

Eugene, a theater critic and bon vivant who never married and who was always a little philosophical by nature, seemed almost luminous as he neared the end of his sixth decade. As he buttered his scone he spoke of change, and forgiveness, and moving on.

But I chided him over some old spat he once had with a local director. It had gotten very personal, and I knew that he stayed up nights dwelling on that old score. "Eugene, you may think you have grown up, but I know what you would say if Rothenberger walked into the dining room right now."

"I would probably look the other way," Eugene smiled demurely and patted his lips with his napkin.

"Same old Eugene," I teased him. "A battler, a Cyrano."

"Actually, Michael, this may surprise you to hear this, but I patched things up with Robert several years ago. I apologized to him for my part in the dispute." He shrugged. "I just didn’t have the energy any more for all that conviction."

"You’re kidding," I said. "You hated that man."

"I still don't like him," he sighed. "He's no charmer. But I did it for myself. I had to let it go. And I did it because it was how I was brought up. My mother taught me not to hold a grudge, and I never understood what she meant. It wasn't about being good, it was about surviving.

"I'm still very proud, which is the root of the problem," he said, leaning over the table confidentially. "But I can't be proud about everything. There isn’t enough of me."

I told him I was impressed. We talked about politics, and about writing, and about baseball. Eugene is a dyed in the wool Red Sox fan, and he knew every statistic, who was hot and who was not. So it was not as if all passion had left him.

"So what's eating you, my friend," he finally asked.

"You can tell something's bugging me, eh? Well," I said, "I've been sulking the past few months. For years I've been going to an annual Disraeli Club Dinner in Stillwater. It's just a bunch of journalists and political science types who like to get together, drink fine wine, enjoy a good meal, and discuss the state of the art of public discourse.

"The host is a man I've known for 20 years, Gerry Archbold. Gerry is a staunch Republican and as you know I am a Democrat drawn to Gene McCarthy/Moe Udall types, the nondoctrinaire liberal uncles of politics.

"Well, the election was upsetting to both Gerry and me, for different reasons, particularly the Florida part. The last time we spoke, he as much as told me he never wanted to see me again. He was very rude. And next month the dinner is coming up, and I am shut out of it, and I'm mad at Gerry for indulging himself. There was no need to blacklist me from the dinner."

"I see," Eugene said, spearing a chunk of pineapple. "And what do you plan to do about it?"

"What can I do? His mind is set. I'm afraid a very pleasant era has ended for me."

Eugene sat quietly for a moment. "You know, I think I know how you can get back into the club," he finally said.

"How?" I was willing to try any ruse.

"Go to Gerry's home in Stillwater and ring the bell. When he answers, say to him, 'Gerry, I feel very badly about our disagreement. I just need to tell you, to your face, that I am sorry for my part in it. My friendship with you is more important than any election, and I would like to be friends with you again. I know feelings ran strong during the election, but they aren’t worth losing an old friend over.' What do you think would happen if you said that?"

"Wow," I said. "I think it would work. No one could refuse an apology that sincere."

"The only thing is, you have to believe it," Eugene said. I nodded, and wondered if I did.

It was a wonderful breakfast. Eugene ordered the egg-white omelet, while I made man's work of a frittata. Afterward the waiter brought us little glasses of Asti. To celebrate our years together, I saluted him with a toast. "To friendship," I said, gently clinking his glass.

"And to mothers," he answered, with a slight, wise smile.    

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_{COPYRIGHT (c) 2001
by MICHAEL FINLEY}

Mike is available to write for your publication or organization right now. Call him at 651-644-4540. Or e-mail him.

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