No (Fake) Friends

“I’ve got no friends and I’m looking for none.” - The Nihilistics

Yesterday, I worked yet another estate sale in Hoboken. My friend Sharon texted two days prior, said her helper had to drop out, could I fill in? Sure. She pays twenty bucks an hour, off the books, and it’s the holidays–we all need extra dough. I had no plans anyway, except for hitting the Meadowlands Flea (all I’d do there is buy more shit I either don’t need or would eventually have to unload). Sharon warned me It’s an old house–1840s–and very tight quarters, so you’ll be constantly moving out of the way. Okay. I know the drill by now. I’ve helped with two of her sales in Hoboken and one in Tenafly, pricing items prior to opening day and backing Sharon up during the sale. It’s interesting to see the business from the other side. But as much as I love hunting for cool old objects, I’ve never been a fan of estate sales. Putting your name on a list, lining up outside with a bunch of misshapen antiques dealers swapping war stories, that mad rush when the door swings wide, the rapacious, grasping nature of those “looking for a steal”…ugh. It’s even worse working one. Seeing how the more mercenary types treat the dead person’s belongings, watching them use Google Lens and EBay on their phones to see if an item’s worth the asking price (like we didn’t already do the research and aim for the low end of the scale), asking stupid questions (“What did this guy do for a living?” “Why are you assuming it was a guy?”) and imploring you to just Throw that in. No. There is no “throwing it in” on the first day of a sale. Come back on day three and if the shit’s still there, maybe.

Okay, so there’s the way people act when they’re trying to get over–I’m familiar and it’s no surprise–but what I couldn’t anticipate was the sadness I felt over the departed. Guessing at the lives they led through what they left behind, wondering why they valued what they kept, asking myself if I would’ve enjoyed knowing this person: it’s impossible not to transport myself forward and imagine my estate sale and the fucking randos pawing through my former possessions and hoping to make a score. When I’ve helped Sharon I’ve come home depressed (more than usual, even), thinking about ALL THE SHIT I OWN and HOW LONG IT’LL TAKE TO GET RID OF IT. Yesterday was no exception. But I came home even more troubled.

Sharon had me stake out a spot in a tiny pair of rooms at the top of the stairs and twice I former friends (such a sad pair of words) appeared. The first two were a couple (one a WFMU DJ, her husband a gearhead like me)–Sweet T. and I once socialized with often. We’d go to their place in Jersey City, they’d come and see us. The “friendship”–like so many others–didn’t survive my departure from the radio station. They came in wearing masks (awkward because I was sans mask and increasingly self-conscious) and I briefly chatted with the husband (who said You’re looking good!) while my former ‘FMU colleague succeeded at not engaging with me until I asked if she was still involved with ‘FMU. Even with her back turned to me I sensed her bristle at my impertinence. Yes, I still do a show there. They left and not ten minutes later another former friend and his wife appeared. It’d been a decade since I’d seen either of them and I decided to act casual and friendly. It worked because I was genuinely glad to see them. We made small talk about being in the second oldest house in Hoboken and what might become of the building. I heard they bought this place for six thousand dollars in, like, nineteen seventy, and it just sold for one point four million. And the buyers want to knock it down. The wife confirmed the accuracy of what I said and added I’m on the historical commission and there’s a meeting about it soon. It’s going on all over Hoboken. People paying ungodly sums for these small row house and utterly gutting them over a year. As the wife poked around I found myself in a brisk conversation with her husband (who also said You look good!), a man who was the center of my social scene when I first got to New Jersey in 1986. Back then we found ourselves constantly hanging out, playing poker, smoking pot, watching TV, playing in a band together and even taking a grand road trip to New Orleans one winter. Then he met the woman who’d become his wife and I ran afoul of her. It doesn’t matter how, just know I utterly mishandled it and he felt forced to choose. Of course he chose her. Duh. They’re still together and I’m lucky if I get a ten minute chat every decade.

When they left my mind began listing all those who’ve fallen by the wayside, the former friends (perhaps miscategorized acquaintances) who found it easy to throw me over. The last time I checked the “Close Friends” contacts group on my phone I was aghast to see how many I no longer speak with. Of maybe two dozen names four or five hang on. The rest are now out of my life. Could I tell you why? Only vaguely. There’s the aforementioned WFMU “divorce” that had many deciding I was a “work friend” I guess. Others? Stupid reasons. We fell out. Hell, it happened again this week. Someone I considered a friend but who’s been increasingly scarce finally admitted–after I forced his hand–I was on his Pay No Mind list. I wrote, asked Is everything okay with us? and was told No, not really. He listed transgressions of mine going back a decade, offenses he’d never brought up until now, savoring them like a newly-decanted fine bottle of wine. I was gobsmacked, especially when he dragged my old newsletter into it. According to my “friend,” the newsletter was nothing more than my vengeance on all who’d wronged me. He scolded me for not being grateful enough in writing and made it clear he quaked in eternal fear he, too, would cross me somehow and I’d lay into him one week. There was more. Apparently, I was angry and hung up on him once, leaving out why (he cancelled last minute on a major fundraising undertaking he’d said he’d help with) but I get it. I am an asshole. But I always thought that friends allow friends to be assholes, then course-correct. Any intense relationship has bumps in the road and how you handle them is a function of how much you like the other person. What punched me hard in the solar plexus was realizing this guy didn’t care enough to come to me AT THE TIME OF THE OFFENSE and give me the chance to make it right. Instead, he half-ghosted me, responding to my emails, texts and phone calls with a perfunctory I’m really busy... can I get back to you? and then not. Every invitation to him and his wife was an elaborate Maybe we can... oh, maybe we can’t... yes, we definitely can’t dance. In my response to his lowering the boom I said “I’m sorry I couldn’t provide the friction-free, endlessly uplifting experience you apparently need in a friendship.” Yes, I know. A bit much. But I was devastated at being told, essentially, You’re not worth the effort. Especially knowing I’d often been the one doing the leaving, telling someone who considered me a friend We’re through.

Here’s where I get to Mike and the Nihilistics (were you wondering all along?): I probably could’ve handled it better when I left the band and “broke up” with Mike. He’d been my best friend for almost a decade and I abandoned him. I had good reason: he tried to strangle me to death. That can put a crimp in any friendship. But Mike struggled with alcoholism, mental illness, depression. I couldn’t handle it at the time, couldn’t deal with him, decided it was easier to cut off all contact. The geographical distance made it easier (there was no way in hell Mike was coming to New Jersey to see me). In my memory, I was clear with Mike why we could no longer be friends. I told him You tried to choke me to death! and he dismissed me: You thought that was SERIOUS?! Umm, yeah? Have I been as forthright with everyone once considered friend who’s no longer around? I’ve tried. Unlike others I know (or KNEW), I have no problem with confrontation. Growing up in my family, then doing talk radio for thirty years primed me to tackle interpersonal issues head on. Not like the “friend” who just dumped me, harboring resentments until he decided his life would be better without me in it. Jesus. I’m not sure if that’s passive-aggressive but it sure does leave me holding the bag. I don’t like holding the bag but so be it.

Some people self-remove from your life and, at first, it stings. Then you realize this wasn’t a true friend, someone you’d rely on in a crisis or call for a friendly ear. This was a fair-weather type who ran at the first sign of storm clouds. Oh well. One less Christmas card to send.