The Reluctant Best Friend

How a leaky plane, a dead raccoon, and a surprise announcement made me see friendship differently.

The turbulence on our flight to Guanajuato was severe, and the nervous flyer in 1C asked her seatmate, “Is this normal?”

Her friend squeezed her hand: “It’s fine. I’m here for you.” I would have rolled my eyes, but Trish wants me to be less judgy. And I’d soon find out that this trip was about that exact thing: being there for someone, even when you don’t want to.

This cramped flight was awful. We had no snacks, not even a glass of water. Trish upgraded us to clase primera, which I think translates as “you mean nothing to us.” Three French bulldogs sat at their owners’ feet, wondering what they had done to deserve this. And cold liquid kept dribbling onto my head. The flight attendant nodded when she saw me looking for the source, as if to say, “Sí, señor, this plane leaks.”

I wasn’t thrilled about the trip in the first place. Our friends Paul and Diane were hosting their daughter’s wedding in San Miguel de Allende, which required a full day of travel.

“Can’t we just send a check?” I asked when I saw the invitation on the fridge.

“We’re going!” Trish insisted. “It’ll be fun!”

“If it was going to be fun, you wouldn’t have to say that,” I replied. “It’s Paul’s birthday all over again.”

A couple years ago, Paul invited us to rural Canada to celebrate his birthday with fly fishing, heliskiing, and whitewater rafting, three activities I’ve never done—because why the hell would anyone?

I remember saying to Trish, “Maybe I’ll get Covid before we have to go.” That’s how much of an asshole I am—wishing for a global pandemic to last longer so I could skip a friend’s birthday. As luck turned out, I didn’t get sick, but Paul detached his retina and had to cancel. Not so lucky for Paul, but handy for me.

We’ve been friends with Paul and Diane for years, ever since we moved to Evanston with our three-year-old. Our baby monitors could be heard from either backyard, which meant margaritas aplenty after the kids were asleep. And we’ve gone on lots of trips and dinners since then. I guess if they wanted us to schlep halfway across the planet to celebrate their daughter’s wedding, I shouldn’t be a jerk about it, right?

Paul has been a huge support over the years. One night, I called him over to help me figure out why the basement smelled so bad, like someone died. Paul found a dead raccoon in the window well and brought over a shovel from his garage. He scooped it out, pretended to throw it at me, then dumped it in the trash.

A few years later he brought out that same shovel when I complained that the city planted a parking regulation sign in front of our house, obstructing my view. We had been drinking in the backyard, and we laughed like kids as we dug the signpost out in the dark and planted it in front of my neighbor’s house, where it still stands lopsided today. The couple who lived there split up a few years after that. I hope the sign wasn’t a contributing factor.

Paul and I don’t always see eye to eye. His frugality exasperates me, and his headstrong nature, not dissimilar to my own, can drive me crazy. And his insistence on having meaningful conversations when I just want to talk shit about people annoys the hell out of me. But I’m lucky to have him in my life.

The jaw-dropping Mexican town and over-the-top festivities made the wedding weekend even more fun than Trish had promised. And it was more meaningful than I expected. Watching someone you knew in pigtails walking down the aisle makes your heart trip all over itself.

At one of the parties before the wedding, Paul introduced me to the groom’s father, saying, “This is Mark Rothschild, my best friend.”

Best friend? What? When did that happen? Was there a vote? Did I miss the paperwork?

I didn’t even know that grown men had best friends. Poker buddies, tennis partners, bourbon guys, sure. But best friend? That’s a middle-school pact, not a midlife thing. But there it was.

When you think about it, friendships are accidental. The kid you sat next to in kindergarten becomes your best friend through elementary school. Your 18-year-old suitemate during freshman year in college becomes inseparable for the next four years. Neighbors become buddies. Friendship is more a function of proximity than anything else, right?

Still, after proximity comes time. Paul and I became friends because we had adjacent backyards and kids the same age, but a lot has happened since then. My ordination, my father’s funeral, trips to the hospital, even my business startup—Paul was there. He keeps showing up. Like that person sitting next to 1C said on the plane to her friend: “I’m here for you.” That stubborn guy is always there.

Now that Paul forced my hand to think about the idea, I realize I’ve been fortunate to have a few best friends as an adult, each with their own claim on that title. Some from San Diego, others from Chicago, each vital to my sanity and my joy. I hope they know who they are, so I don’t need to write about them too. And I hope I mean something to them as well. But Paul is the one who most often forces me out of my comfort zone—and occasionally onto a leaky airplane—and that puts him in a category all his own.

So fine, Paul. You win. I’ll be your best friend too. Hell, I love you. But no more destination events, okay? I don’t love you that much.

Who’s the friend that keeps showing up for you—and do they know how much you love them for it?