My best friend died 5 years ago, and I didn’t know

This past weekend I was blessed to be able to attend my 50-year high school reunion. (So now you all know how old I am.) I say “blessed” because I realized that there were so many of my classmates who were not so fortunate.

Many of the attendees were energetic and spry and full of life, and there were several canes, hearing aids and thick glasses, as well. Some shared glorious stories of careers, families, and accomplishments, and others carried with them a litany of physical and emotional scars with stories of illness, trauma, and pain.

We laughed together. Some of us cried. We shared memories, hugs, took way too few and way too many pictures at the same time, and bathed ourselves in the warmth of camaraderie.

Some of us had remained close throughout the decades, a few even still living in or near the old neighborhood. Many had moved away and traveled great distances to reunite with old friends. For some of us, we were making friends for the first time with people who we didn’t hang out with back during our school days,

Some of the funniest moments were watching people trying to figure out who each other was. The most frequent question overheard, “Do you remember me?,” was probably asked a hundred times.

Much of the high-school cliquishness had evaporated over the years. The jocks and the nerds, band and theater, heads and honor roll all intermingled. Old jealousies, competitions, and grudges long forgotten.

There were some yearbooks and old class photos passed around. And there, on one corner of the table near the front of the room was a small binder with a shadow of gloom over it. In it were enlargements of the yearbook pictures of classmates who had died in the past 50 years.

We were a class of 539 graduates back in 1976. More than 120 came to the reunion. There were many who had sent their regrets for not being able to attend because of other commitments, family obligations, and, unfortunately, battling health issues.

As you can imagine with people dispersing over five decades, there was a great majority of classmates whose status was unknown. People didn’t know how to find them and so they likely never received an invitation.

With that said, however, there was still that ominous photo album on the end of the table. Many of us refused to even look at it, not wanting to darken the evening’s revelry with sadness. I hesitated to look myself, until I happened to walk by while someone else was looking through the pictures.

Then I saw something that was like a kick in the gut.

It was the photo of Arnold Dean.

Known to most of us by his nickname, “Huggy” (a name he adopted himself from the character Huggy Bear in the 1970s television series, Starsky and Hutch), he was one of my best friends throughout high school, and for several years afterward.

I was not a popular kid in school. I was small, awkward, skinny, and a lousy athlete. Targeted by bullies, I had few friends and was somewhat shy around others. Huggy was one of my small group of close comrades and we got into all sorts of shenanigans together. He was the first of us to get his own car and would lead us on adventures at the Jersey shore, the mall, flea markets, and, later, the night clubs.

Throughout the late 70s, Huggy and I and a couple of other friends frequented all the discos in New Jersey and New York City. We got in line to get into Studio 54 and walked away dejected when we the doormen denied us entry because we were not famous, glamorous, rich, beautiful, or interesting enough. Studio 54 was so iconic, it was like being turned away from Heaven at the Pearly Gates.

So, time and again we wound up at Roseland or Pippins or one of a dozen other hot spots in the Big Apple, trying to outdo each other on the dance floor and in our funky, wild attire. We even tried to woo some of the same women.

Sadly, we weren't very good about taking photos back then so there are hardly any pictures of those times. 

When  came home after boot camp, Huggy brought me out to a club to 
surprise our old band mates when I jumped up onto the stage to dance
with our lead singer, Beverly Houston.

Huggy and I worked as roadies for Trieste, a local disco band that toured the club circuit in the Northeast, and we both had a secret crush on our lead singer, Beverly Houston, who wanted neither of us.

Then, while seeking a more professional career, I joined the Navy which took me away for many months at a time, but we were still best of friends whenever I was back home. 

Ultimately, I met the wonderful women who eventually became my wife. Huggy, of course, was one of my groomsmen along with our mutual friend, Frank.

Unfortunately, my friends decided to try to be what they thought was funny at our wedding, causing distractions, insulting our bridesmaids to the point of bringing some to tears, and angering my never-ruffled father-in-law. I know they didn’t intend to be mean or troublesome, but I didn’t take it well. 

At first I was angry, and then mostly just disappointed. I felt betrayed and let down. I don’t think Huggy ever realized how badly he had hurt me, and he never apologized. So when the Navy transferred me shortly afterward, it made it easy for me to drift away and break contact. 

That was more than 40 years ago.

Huggy and I had always been at each other's side back then.

Over the next few years, Huggy stayed in touch with my mother and, when he knew I was going to be in town to visit her, he would occasionally stop by. We had some brief, strained conversations, but it was apparent that we were no longer the tight friends we once were.

I sometimes get nostalgic, reminiscing about our times together and recalling all our adventures.  Although we had split apart, I always wished him well and always hoped he would find happiness in life.

I sort of hoped he might show up at last weekend’s 50-year celebration and hoped he would be one of those classmates who had had wonderful things happen in his life.

Seeing his picture in that horrible photo album of lost classmates was devastating.

No one had any details about his death, nor even knew when he had died, they just knew he was gone and put his photo in that album.

Trying to research what happened to him, I only found a four-year-old obituary for his father, who had been like a second dad to me – another gut-punch. That obituary stated that Mr. Dean was predeceased by his son Arnold the year before.

I am not sure what hit me harder, the knowledge of Huggy’s death, or the fact that it happened five years ago and I hadn’t known about it.

I reflect now on the futility of all those lost years, the tragic end to what had previously been a great friendship. Despite our separation, I loved Huggy.

I am glad that we write these things on a keyboard nowadays because surely if I was writing on paper, it would be dotted with my spilled tears.  

If any revelation is to come from this experience it is that people will always come in and out of our lives. Some briefly, some for the long run. Sometimes things happen and you need to let go and move on. But friendships are precious, even after they end, even if broken friendships never get mended.

Anger and grudges are senseless. They eat away at us and cause rifts and stress, and when we get news like this, guilt hits like a royal gut-punch. We find ourselves second-guessing our reactions and decisions.  And now it is too late. 

I hope you are resting well, old friend.

Studio 54 wasn’t a good enough place for us back then. But I know you found the best dance floors and are ‘cutting a rug’ and ‘busting a move’ in Heaven.