Bob's best friend Larry was a little intimidating. He always seemed to let you know that he was on the edge of something, ahead of you by two steps - and enjoyed letting you know that he was those two steps ahead of you. He lived on Sultan Street as well, above Bob by a few floors and in a proper one bedroom apartment. Bob's was more like a studio with a niche, around which Bob threw up curtains to mimic a separate space where his bed was tucked.
There was only one piece of furniture in the whole of Larry's apartment. A sofa. But it was quite a sofa, let me tell you. I learned all about it. Dressed in a vibrant multi-coloured silk, this piece of Louis Quatorze was stuffed with feathers, not paltry foam. No foam for Larry, not ever. There it sat in the middle of his empty living room like a dreadnought. I can't even recall if Larry had a television, or any pictures on the wall.
Larry also worked for Air Canada and like Bob, in the cabin. I think it irked him. I recall Bob relating the story of a summer retreat for continued language learning. Air Canada, being the national carrier, is a bilingual entity. Any of the announcements have to be made in the two official languages. If you didn't speak French you could take classes and brush up. And this one summer Bob and Larry went together. It drove Bob to distraction that, when introductions were made during the first day, Larry introduced himself as a desktop publisher and not as part of the cabin crew. It seemed, perpetually, that he always needed to be better than you.
He usually sniffed or equivocated whenever Bob would playfully tease him for his haughtiness, whether it concerned his work or his taste. Doing long layovers, which he said he preferred because he was able to see some of the world, he once told me a story about being lost in Mumbai. "There I was on the street as night was falling, not at all knowing what I was going to do or how I'd end up, and I felt completely free to keep on walking .." Having hooked his fish he made sure that he never finished the story. That was Larry. Invented drama.
He and I went to Boots one night to meet Bob and have an evening drink. Winter was coming up, it may have been late October. Beside us, nursing his pint, was an old fellow who looked like a retired stevedore. A roguish toque capped his thinning hair. He wore a plaid shirt. Larry turned to me, smiling, like one of the Siamese cats in Lady & the Tramp. "Ghost of Christmas future," he said.
He found a doctor, a sweet-natured bearded fellow. Bob told me they were an item. I think it thrilled Larry beyond belief that he had bagged a physician as a husband. He seemed to relish it like a mid-century modern housewife, or a Jewish mother of her son. What I didn't see was any affection or tenderness between them. It was as if the two of them had signed a contract. Here he made sure there was no drama at all. But then, my impressions have always counted for little, even sometimes to myself.
A few years ago in the middle of the pandemic I decided to email Bob after more than 20 years of not seeing hide nor hair of him. I assumed there would be no reply, but he sent a photo. There was the old Bob I knew, a bit greyer around the muzzle, wearing a sheepish grin - "look at us now, two old men," he seemed to be saying with that grin. He complained of heart problems. He had retired some years before. In the email I asked about Larry, they were after all, the best of friends. On that point, to my fascinated consternation, I got no response.
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