Friends Indeed

Abstract

Friends Indeed Earl Rovit (bio) I doubt that I’m more fortunate in my friendships than anyone else, but because they are my friends, I regard them as special, as nonpareils, as uniquely gifted to offer me companionship, support, sympathy, enrichment, love. That, in my clear-sighted moments, I can recognize how their presence has immeasurably enhanced my life doesn’t deter me from feeling—in my murkier times—that through some intrinsic qualities of my own, I must have merited their regard. In some sense, which I don’t care to delineate or justify, there is that nature in me which is also special—else, why should these special people have chosen me? This, of course, is the radiant illusion of friendship. It not only puts an aura of value around one’s friend, but, like the reflected light of the moon, one’s self also glows. But friendship—like its generic mother, love—is far from being a monolithic concept, and significant acts of friendship can sometimes stem from the most superficial connections. I recall in the waning months of 1945 when I—a rather exceptionally callow adolescent—was some three or four days out of Puget Sound on a troop transport bound for Inchon, Korea. Our Liberty ship with several thousand men aboard was wallowing in the very teeth of fierce frigid waves and wind, and I had lost my field jacket, certainly one of the most essential pieces of gi gear. I was propped against a bulkhead, shivering, fighting nausea, thoroughly miserable, wondering how I was going to live with what seemed to me at the time an absolutely overwhelming loss. “What’s the matter, Rove?” I heard, and there was Peter Rondinelli staring compassionately at me. I wouldn’t then or now have defined Pete as a friend. Like several dozen of the men I had trained with in Infantry Basic, we had a casually amiable relationship, but certainly not one on which to base much weight of mutual care or affection. A short, voluble, and street-smart Italian, Pete was from Staten Island and, susceptible to too many movies, desperately desirous of being called “Pistol Pete”—a demand which we all cheerfully [End Page 75] disregarded. His presence in the U.S. Army was curiously accidental. He had been found guilty of statutory rape (his undoubtedly willing partner being underage), and the patriotic judge had given him the choice of incarceration or voluntary induction. His concern for my plight seemed genuine as I told him what had happened in what probably was a doomsday tone. Brushing aside my worry as a minor nuisance that could easily be corrected, he slapped me on the shoulder—“What’s your size?” he asked, “Your jacket size.” “40 regular,” I said, wondering whether he had some influence with a supply sergeant. “Give me a little time,” he said. “Pistol Pete will handle it.” And, mirabile dictu, he was back in about an hour with a slightly-worn, perfectly acceptable field jacket, 40 regular. “No problem,” he said. “Just print in your serial number.” Carefully, with indelible ink, I blacked out the id numbers on the inside of the jacket collar and replaced them with mine. I thanked Pete effusively, but he would have none of it. “What the hell, Rove,” he said. “What are friends for?” As a doleful codicil to this story, I must confess that this was the last conversation that I can remember having with Pete. We were assigned to different units in Korea, and the last I heard about him was in a repple-depple camp a year later on my way back to the States when I learned that he had been sent to the stockade for theft. Lord knows I’ve had scores of closer and more intimate friends since, but I’m hard-pressed to think of many more valuable or gratuitous acts of friendship. Thinking, as I often do, in terms of categories, I’ve concluded that friends tend to be of two types: our likely and our unlikely friends. My likely friends are those who in some significant ways are more like than unlike me—whether in age, sex...