“Sanford, let’s recite together,” he said abruptly: “‘Oh, to be in England / Now that April’s there, / And whoever wakes in England / Sees, some morning, unaware…’ Buffalo is not exactly England, but it is nice here. I love this place. As I’ve said many times before, it has soul.”
This time, Arthur’s characteristic attempt to change the subject to uncoil my melancholy failed. I stopped walking. I dropped my hands, clenched my fists, turned my ruined eyes upward, and shouted, “Arthur, look at me. I’m finished. Look at my eyes. I can’t see. What has God done to me?” Yes, it was blatant self-pity, but I now like to think of it as a way of firing myself up, of creating the momentum of emotion in order to move on. It was the standard tactic of backing up to get a running start.
In any case, Arthur was having none of it. He gently put his hand on my shoulder. “You know, Sanford, when we studied the words the Greeks spoke, they were just that to us, mere words. Those words—about tragedy, glory, heroism, greatness—they were all just concepts. I couldn’t really comprehend what they were talking about. But now, as I see you standing here, blind—I still can’t believe it—but now I understand the words of the Greeks. They weren’t just words. Seeing you as you are now shows me the real meaning of tragedy.”
I said nothing. Here I was, battling for my life, and Arthur was talking philosophy. He quickly broke into my silence. “We read about a man dropping from the heights, and his fall to the bottom so precipitous that they called it a tragedy. But what about heroism rising? What if you’re not on top when you fall? What if you’re just an ordinary guy who gets devastated? Do you remember Professor Goethals?”
“Yep,” I responded. We had both taken his humanities course. Now, Arthur proceeded to mimic his resonant bass voice. “‘Was Achilles a heroic or tragic figure?’ It was Achilles, remember? ‘A spear came out of nowhere.’ Not only did Achilles survive, he triumphed.” Arthur went on in his mock-Goethals bass register: “‘Gentleman, Achilles was a great man, a hero.’ Sanford, those words mean something to me today.”
“But, Arthur, do you remember what Achilles said?” Then I put in rapidly, so as not to give Arthur time to respond, “The question was, ‘Achilles, were you to relive your life, would you, knowing what you know now, select the short and glorious life you lived, or would you choose to live a long and dull one?’”
“I don’t remember that. What was his response?”
“‘Just give me one more day in the sunshine.’” I repeated it with emphasis, “Just give me one more day in the sunshine, Arthur. That’s all I ask.”
“But, Sanford, you have already lived a fine life, and I think yours will be a long life. No, you won’t see the sun, but the fire in you will lead you to achievements that others can only dream about.” That flowery rhetoric was pure Arthur, right out of late nights at the V&T Pizzeria.
“I don’t know where I’ll come out,” I replied, “but wherever it is, it will sure as hell be better than sitting like a lump in my living room.”
“Sanford, listen to me carefully,” he said. “You will be a great man, a hero—greatness will be yours.” That is the grandiose manner in which we spoke to each other in those days, yet meaning every word. “Anyway, what would you do here?”
“I don’t know. Work with my father, I guess.”
“You’re going to work in a scrap yard?”
“Yeah, I guess. Why? Is something wrong with that?”
“No, not necessarily. It just seems a little off from what you wanted to do.”
“Well, Arthur, I can’t do that any longer. You don’t get it, do you.”
“Yes, I do get it. You’re the one who doesn’t get it.”
“What don’t I get?”
“Nothing,” he said dismissively.
“No, tell me.”
“Well, then, here it is. I need you to come back. Me. Okay? It’s not that you need to come back for yourself, though you do—but I need you there. You’re my best friend. What am I going to do for the rest of the time if you’re not there?” His voice was tight. I didn’t say anything. He added, “I mean, we’re best friends, right?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Then you have to come back. You agreed, remember? We made a promise to each other. It was when we said we’d live together.”
“Well, I don’t know if this new thing counts.”
“Yes, it does,” he said. “Of course, it does.”
“This is different,” I said.
“No, it’s not. This is it. This is exactly what I’m talking about. It’s the perfect time. I need you to come back. And if you come back, then you’ll need me. This is what we promised each other. This was the whole point.”
Arthur was right. It was a stipulation: one would be there for the other in times of crisis. This was a chip, I would discover throughout my later life, that I would need to cash in on occasion. I would cash in one of Arthur’s chips when I went back to school. I would cash in a chip when my father, Carl, died and Arthur came rushing to Buffalo to be there with me—to sit outside on the porch with me in silence for hours, days; no words, just understanding. I would cash in his chips over the decades whenever I needed to hear his voice: frank, light, resonating with truthfulness. I would take him up on his promise at the birth of my children, for he would be godfather to each—a promise that extended even beyond that.
My children would themselves call him at times about matters they could not discuss with me, or if they felt he would be a better ear, less judgmental. I called in Arthur’s promise when I asked him to sing at my wedding and then, years later, without my calling him, he
