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    I met Tim in the second grade. We sat together in Mrs. Worrel’s class. We became friends when we discovered no other group would have us. We weren’t athletic enough to be jocks. The girls didn’t like us because we looked funny. Even the Scouts, who had taken a solemn oath to be kind and charitable, steered clear of us.

    Tim lived on a farm. I lived in town. When we hit fourth grade, our parents let us ride our bikes back and forth to each other’s houses. Our social life increased exponentially: On Fridays, Tim would ride in to my house to spend the night. We’d go to the movies up at the Royal Rathole. The jocks would sit near the back and neck with the girls, and we’d sit behind them and make kissing noises.

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    On Saturdays, I’d ride my Schwinn Varsity out to Tim’s. We’d stay up late to watch Planet of the Apes. His mom was a night-shift nurse at the county hospital. She’d bring us a tray of Cokes and Pringles, give us both a good night kiss, and head into work. She was real nice. A lot of mothers don’t like having extra kids around, but she never seemed to mind. I always felt welcome. I’m going to try and remember that when my boys start bringing their friends home.

    When we were in the eighth grade, I invited a girl named Amy to the spring dance. Tim came along. We wore plaid leisure suits and drank a lot of punch. Amy spent most of her time in the bathroom.

    Then we went to high school. We took all the same classes so we could be together. We were both girl crazy. Unfortunately; our feelings weren’t reciprocated. The prettiest girl in school was named Laura. She was a cheerleader, and Tim loved her. She was a friend of my brother's, who was a jock, so I asked her for her picture. She signed it “to someone I really admire.” I think it was because she didn’t remember my name. I sold it to Tim for two bucks. Friendship had its limits.

    When we graduated from high school, we got jobs. I worked in an office for an electric utility. Tim was a mechanic at Logan’s Mobil. I’d stop by every morning on my way to work for a dollar’s worth of gas and conversation. Then at night we’d get in his car and drive to McDonalds in the next town over.

    Flush with money from our jobs, we decided to buy motorcycles. Tim bought one that had a custom paint job. It didn’t run well, but it looked good. We’d ride every Sunday afternoon and most nights. A lot of times we’d end up at the Dairy Queen, where we’d sit on our bikes and talk about stuff that doesn’t seem too important now, but was incredibly so then.

One night, about two o’clock, I got a phone call...

    One night, about two o’clock, I got a phone call from the sheriff’s chaplain, Joe Stump. He told me my best friend since Mrs. Worrel’s second grade class had been hit by a drunken driver and was dead. They were afraid I had been hit too, so they were calling to check on me.

    Tim’s funeral was three days later. I was a pallbearer and sat in the front row. His parents sat across from me. His mother was a knot of grief; his dad was bent and weighed. We buried him at the South Cemetery. All I remember now is the crying.

    There are a lot of things about Tim I’ve forgotten. I do remember that he liked The Dukes of Hazzard and that he was taking a correspondence course on how to be a diesel mechanic. I remember his laugh. And I remember that in the fourteen years of our friendship, I never once heard him ridicule anyone.

    When Tim died, a lot of people took it upon themselves to explain to me why it happened. I would listen and smile and nod my head, mostly so they’d go away and leave me alone.

    There are some things about this life I’ll never understand. One of them is why a drunken driver dies of old age when a never-hurt-a-flea young man barely sees twenty. Someday, I’m going to see God face to face. And when I do, I’m going to ask him why that is.

From the book Front Porch Tales, by Philip Gulley. © 1997 by Multnomah Pub., used by permission.