My Uruguayan friend is angry I’ve become friends with someone he used to live with, a man he grew to hate. That man also hates my Uruguayan friend, though he contends my Uruguayan friend’s hatred for him predates his own. He’s a more enlightened sort, he says, he never hates first.
At the café my Uruguayan friend motions to the ceiling and huffs at a woman who’s knitting. His water cup is empty and he won’t refill it, though he’s very thirsty. I know you two share this Zen thing, he says. You do it together. You be good then.
I want to tell him Zen living is not about being good, but this will only upset him more. And it will upset me, because I don’t like to talk about Zen, especially with people who dismiss it.
Why am I friends with my Uruguayan friend? Maybe we aren’t friends, maybe we just like to throw a frisbee around with someone who, when asked to throw a frisbee, won’t waffle and will just say, Sure.
But my Uruguayan friend has something on me and it has to do with the last woman he went out with. While we were at a party, Lucinda kept peering at me and making side comments about how I chose to sit on the host’s couch rather than dance when everyone was dancing. Everyone was not dancing. Beside me was a mascara-loving woman and we debated the price of bagels. Lucinda would dance for ten seconds and then stop and stare at me with arms crossed, then dance for ten more and stop again. Finally, my Uruguayan friend’s girlfriend threw a tub of ranch dip at me. I looked for my Uruguayan friend, but he was in the corner getting high.
Why are you so mad at me, Lucinda? What have I done? She said it was because she knew I had told my Uruguayan friend I didn’t think so much of her. And truly, some months out of the year, she did struggle. One time, after we’d all been drinking, she smiled at me, grabbed my forearm, and pressed her long scarlet nails into my flesh. I didn’t think such a person would be good for my Uruguayan friend—he was kind of sensitive and non-violent, except when it came to people he hated. But I never told my Uruguayan friend my opinion—I told a co-worker because this co-worker had just told me about a lady friend of his who went out with a guy who wasn’t good for her. I wanted to say something in response because my co-worker usually gets upset if I’m quiet—he thinks he’s done something wrong and that also, in certain lights, I look like his stepfather, a man he loathed. But I’m thirty years younger than your stepfather, I said. Don’t argue with me, he said. So although Lucinda was wrong, she was also right—I had spilled my discouraging thoughts and she could feel it.
At the same party, my Uruguayan friend insisted he drive me home. Lucinda complained bitterly. She wanted me to ask other people for a ride, though I didn’t know anyone else except the pro-price-gouging bagel lady, and she was on a bike. Why are you doing this to me? Lucinda sneered. My Uruguayan friend said, It’s called friendship, and she didn’t say any more.
We sit in the café and I listen to more complaints—about the time his former roommate brought out the dictionary to show him what karma means. This was done in front of many guests, including my Uruguayan friend’s sister. What kind of person does that? he asks. And you like this guy?
I tell him I like what he represents, though I’m confused about the representation’s meaning. This other man is someone I can talk to easily, more easily than I can talk to my Uruguayan friend. But he’s a mess with the frisbee. We need more than one person, otherwise we will get worn out, and that’s not what we want to happen.