Greg, Chris and Jim (L-R) are guys I’ve known since high school. Way, way back in the ’90s.
Greg is one of the nicest guys you can imagine. A warm personality and a great sense of humour. Years ago we’d spend afternoons and evenings in a suburban basement, jamming out songs together. Years before that, we were in Cub Scouts together. I was at the New Year’s party the night he met Kelly. Over a decade ago now.
I knew Chris as Adam, his middle name, when I moved to Ottawa. He was one of the first roommates I had in the city. Thanks to him and his university love-turned-wife Kathryn, I’ve had more than one roof over my head here in town, and someone to discuss Ben Folds with.
Jim is one of my oldest and dearest friends, a guy I know I’ll always be able to rely on. We spent our college years living together, when Jim met Heather. I helped him move here. A lot of conversations about work and life over too many rye and cokes. A lot of stories, mostly his, that I’ve heard a million times and still enjoy hearing when I’m with him.
Chris and Kathryn have a kid, and another on the way. Jim and Heather are expecting. All three guys are paying mortgages. My grown-up friends. They’re the ones I’ll turn to for those important adult questions, since I’ll be the last to get there, if ever.
A lot of who I am comes from the experiences I’ve shared with them. There are too many to list, best recalled over pitchers on a patio by the ones who were there. It’s a vast familiarity, even though our visits are fewer and fewer. I’ll know them when we’re old men. Jim, of course, will be the oldest. By a wide margin.