A couple Saturdays ago, John and I invited his friend, David, for dinner. John and David lost touch with each other seven or eight years ago. To the best of my understanding, they had some argument during a golf outing. I think all of us would agree now that whatever small offense may have actually taken place at the time, the lengthy communications freeze that followed was hardly worth any possible bragging rights over who was more correct in their point of view. They re-connected just a few weeks ago, when another friend from their band of brothers lost his battle with cancer.

Like so many guy friends of that era, David was given a nickname as a core member of his circle, which John could not help but use. Everyone from their posse had at least one alternate moniker. Most everyone from their group (as young twenty-something year old dudes), in fact, had their own make-believe territory within Chicago’s nexus of neighborhoods, like an Arthurian kingdom, associated with their name and lineage. (John’s kingdom was referred to as Leonia, based on his last name, Leo. And the friend they recently lost, nicknamed Dog, his province was called Canineland. So it went.) That eight names were used to describe the antics of five people made it hard for me to follow their stories, but it also added an almost mythic quality to their reminiscences. And the supporting characters had multiple names, too, as if their personal histories were captured in some sort of code that only they could decipher.

“Who’s that?” I asked, when David recounted a mean action perpetrated by Gorgo. He went on to explain a little about an early sixties British monster movie the boys loved and the nasty cadre of monsters that included Godzilla, King Kong and Ogra then described how his mother earned the handle. I felt honored, in a strange way, to be worthy of getting the back story. Although I could not completely comprehend their Clock Work Orange style private language, somehow I was able to pick out highlights which may have shaped their personalities and could account for how the bonds between them, despite their separate paths, grew strong.

We had a simple dinner, which we ate on our back porch, and consumed more than a few glasses of red wine. Eager to show off our new neighborhood, after plates were cleared away, John and I took David for a walk. I tried to make myself scarce as the two boys spent a few more hours on the porch enjoying the rare indulgence of a passed pack of Marlboros. I only caught bits and pieces of their late night conversation.

They both confessed struggling with regrets (over jobs, women, and investments) and admitted to feeling vulnerable about the prospects of staying employed and earning a decent wage up until retirement age. They talked about their children; how much they loved them and how much they hoped they’d be productive and independent adults despite the flawed best they were able to do as parents.

Perhaps at different times in my life, I assumed men had different kinds of relationships with each other than I had with my gal pals. But here I was struck by how much John and David related to each other like I would with Lin (my best friend since the age of ten). They were forthcoming about their disappointments and hopes. It was obvious they would do summersaults to eke out a strain of laughter from the other, or pour the other another glass to acknowledge the shared losses they can’t quite talk about – but don’t have to.

In observing our Saturday Night Live, I watched myself correcting the words I used to imprint the scene in my mind. There is no such thing as “old” friends, I reminded myself. There is no need for dating a relationship. There is no time between people who care about each other nor is there a conversation between friends where things can’t be picked up where they were left off — and that’s no small thing.