With Friends Like This….

With Friends Like This….

“Hey, do you remember that New Year’s Eve at the Matchbox way back when?”  I said to Phil, as we were tacking one on at the last true dive bar/liquor store remaining on Division Street.  I don’t know why this memory popped into my thoughts out of the blue so many yeas later, but it did.

“Yeah, the Matchbox on Milwaukee, that was one wild night.”  Phil said.

The Matchbox is a small upper-class dive that’s long and narrow with a bar running the length of it.  It must be around 6 feet wide from bar to wall and maybe 40-50 feet long.  I’m sure its max capacity is only around 30 people, sitting or standing single file along the bar.  There’s never any room to move when it’s crowded, which is often.  The night we had started reminiscing upon happened about twelve years earlier when I was visiting Chicago for the Christmas holidays.  I had called Phil to see what he was doing for New Year’s Eve.  He told me he was meeting his girlfriend at the bar and invited me to join.  He said his girlfriend could bring one of her friends along.  That sounded fine and we agreed to meet there at 9pm.

When I got to the bar, I was surprised at how small the place was.  I saw my group sitting about halfway down the rail.  They had seats when, by this time, it was already standing room only.  I started pushing through the crowd to get to them.

The girl Phil had arranged for me to meet wasn’t anything special at first glance.  He told me that she was a bit particular in the men she liked, but if you she liked you, she was quite aggressive in the physical sense.  I didn’t know what to make of that characterization, but it intrigued me.  He was right though, as she liked me and things got pretty wild and out of control in no time.

Now, years later, this crazy New Year’s Eve somehow made its way back into my consciousness.  “That was a crazy night.  I haven’t thought about it in a long time or been back to that place since.”  I said.

“Yeah.”  Phil added.  He was also clearly pulling dusty thoughts of the night out of his memory now.

“What was your girlfriend’s name?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Her friend was a real animal.  She took away a piece of my innocence that night.”  I then remembered another detail, “I’d still like you to give me the pictures you took that night.”

“What?!?  You still remember and want those?”

“Of course, I want them.  We’ve been through this before.”

“It’s crazy, that now, almost 12 years later, you’re still asking for those photos.”

“What’s crazy is that now, 12 years later, you still won’t give them to me.”

“Why do you want them so much?”

“I just don’t want them out there.  You never know when things like that will come to the surface and bite you in the ass.”

“Come to the surface?  You’re crazy to still be thinking about this.  Really, what’s the problem?”

“As I said, I just don’t want them out there and would appreciate it if you gave them and their negatives to me.  You were never authorized to bust into the room and take any photos in the first place.”

“Authorized?  Oh Jesus- really?  What the fuck?  As I told you, don’t worry about them.  They’re safe.  No one will ever see them.”

“Dude, it’s the principle.  I cannot for the life of me figure out why you won’t just hand them over.  I didn’t understand it when I asked for them in the past and I still don’t understand it now.  I mean, why would you even want them?”  He didn't answer, so I drained my beer and went to the toilet.  I was riled up now.  It’s funny how a random memory can ruin your mood out of the blue.  I got another beer on my way back and sat down.

“I don’t even know where they are.  They must be in storage somewhere.”  Phil said once I returned.  He was clearly thinking about it the whole time I was away and this was the best excuse he could come up with.

“Dude, you just moved into a new apartment.  I’m sure you went through all your stuff and must have an idea where they are.”

“Yes, I did do that.”

“So, why not hand them over?”

“Why do you want them so bad?  You’re worried about them getting out?  What does that even mean?”  He said again.  He was pulling my strings and it was working.

“What is this shit?!  I just don’t want them out there.”

“You know, Jennings said the same thing about some photos I have of him when we were in Mexico together.  Blah, blah, blah, my wife will find out about them and if she does I’m toast.  Well, his wife never saw or heard about them.  They’re safe in my custody and nothing’s ever happened.  Trust me, you’re fine.”

This last bit about Jennings was news to me and it hit an already tight nerve.  “What the fuck!?!?  There are other photos?  Is this your thing?  You take explicit photos of friends when they’re drunk and having a good time and then hold them over them for years and years?  What kind of bullshit is this?  This is fucking ridiculous!”

Phil went silent realizing his “Jennings defense” had backfired.  Bringing another set of photos into the discussion only further undermined his position.  Nevertheless, he wouldn’t budge and refused to hand them over. 

I slammed my new beer and walked out without saying another word.  There wasn’t even anything bad in the photos, just some partially naked chick all over me, but it was the principle of the whole thing that stuck in my craw.  It must have given him some strange satisfaction to have some leverage over his friends.  I felt like an idiot and walked up the street in a silent fury questioning why such people were still in my life.  Then it dawned on me, it was probably because of the fucking kompromat*!

*Kompromat is a Russian word that has recently been making its way into English usage.  It refers to “compromising materials” collected specifically for the purpose of blackmailing or influencing a person/target.

  

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