When Bros Talk About Their Feelings

A good number of you commented on my last post wanting to know if I'd survived Friday night in my house of the undead. The answer is yes, but it was no thanks to Black Boy, who flaked and left me only my dogs to stand by my side while I faced the legions of the Underworld. 

As you can imagine I was rather peeved, even if I did come out of the thing alive the next morning. My irritation only increased the following day, when Black Boy blew off me and our friend Stocky Guy ahead of a planned bar excursion.

“Have you heard from Black Boy?” I asked when Stocky Guy answered his cell phone.

“I was actually just about to call and ask you that,” Stocky Guy answered. “I’ve tried him like three times and he won’t pick up.”

So Friday night was haunted and Saturday night was shot.

Men. So unreliable.

In light of all this I was in no mood for conversation on Monday morning when I strolled into the grocery store where Black Boy works.

“Hey,” he called out, friendly as a butterfly.

“Hey,” I regarded him coolly and walked past.

A quick glance at his confused face told me all I needed to know.

He really doesn’t get what he did, I thought. Otherwise he wouldn’t be looking at me like I just sprouted two heads.

The guilt then was pretty instant, but the check-out line wasn’t the place to deal with it. Instead I called him up after he got off of work.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey, man, what’s up?”

“I’m sorry that I blew you off today.”

“It’s okay.”

“Do you get why?”

“Um…”

Okay. He’s a guy. You’re going to really have to lay it out.

“I was pissed off about this weekend.”

“Yeah, I know, man. I’m sorry. I just didn’t even have my phone on me.”

“But you knew that we were supposed to do stuff.”

“True. I mean, my girlfriend just wanted to hang out, you know?”

“And that’s fine. I’m not that friend who needs you to hang out with him all the time, and neither is Stocky Guy. It wouldn’t have bothered me that you couldn’t make it, but you just left both of us hanging. All you needed to do was call and say, ‘Hey, I can’t make it.’ That made me feel pretty shitty.”

“You’re right. I really am sorry.”

“It’s good. But, hey, I have to run.”

“Alright, man. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Later.”

Black Boy turned to Thomas, who was with him when I called.

“Well,” he told my brother. “I might have fucked up.”