About 30 years ago, I had a coworker whom I didn’t know very well. We worked in different departments. He worked in the mechanic’s shop, so I’d see him at a distance as we crossed the parking lot in the morning and we’d nod and wave. We’d interact briefly when my company vehicle needed to be serviced. We were cordial, but we didn’t know much about each other. I’m sure he didn’t give me much more thought than I gave him.
I’d made certain assumptions about him, based on how little I did know. This was the deep, rural south, he was a white male in a much lower paying job than I had, much older than me, wedding ring on his finger, looked rather the worse for wear, was polite and mild-mannered, had bad handwriting and grammar, drove a beat-up vehicle, that sort of thing. So, I figured he was conservative, Christian, not highly educated, but working for the state for decades as he had, he probably was law-abiding and had an okay roof over his head, but not a fabulous one. Most likely racist, unfortunately. But like I said, I didn’t dwell on him. To be honest, I can’t even remember what his name was anymore.
When it came time for him to retire, I chipped in for his retirement gift, signed his card, and felt a truckload of envy, but I was also happy for him. No party was thrown at his request. I don’t blame him. It probably would have been awkward. The garage was pretty isolated, so he didn’t really know any of us all that well.
That was a Friday. When I came to work on Monday, several people were gathered in the lobby. That was unusual, so I asked what was going on. I was told that he had dropped dead in the Kmart parking lot over the weekend.
So…yeah.
He had never given a phone number in his emergency contacts, because he said his wife didn’t have a phone and she was the only family he had. He just gave an address. So we chipped in for flowers and signed another card. Two of my coworkers went out the next day to deliver our condolences, offer our help, and inquire as to the funeral arrangements.
They drove deep into the kudzu-choked palmetto tangle that is the North Florida backcountry, until the dirt road ended at a lean-to. Not even a trailer. A lean-to. They said the place looked clean and well cared for, as far as lean-to’s go. Lanterns. An outhouse. A nice garden. Everything in its place.
His wife came out. My coworkers said they talked with her for about 10 minutes. Naturally she was subdued under the circumstances, but she was very kind, and thanked us all for the flowers, and said he had always enjoyed working with us.
She also said she was sorry they had come all this way, but there would be no service of any kind, because in their beliefs, as long as he had a natural death, his body would be taken up to their home planet. And then she apologized, but she really needed to get back to planting her summer squash, or she wouldn’t have any to can this June.
And just like that, we knew more about him in 10 minutes than any of us had in decades. I don’t know if that’s good or bad, or if it reflects poorly on either us or him. He always appeared content. He never reached out. We never reached toward him. Do we have a right to judge his life because he didn’t live it with the requisite number of friends or family, or didn’t live the requisite way, or have the requisite spiritual beliefs? He wasn’t hurting anyone.
The main thing is we shared 40 hours a week with this man, and we knew nothing about him. But he also never offered himself up for the knowing, which, of course, was his right. I’m glad he enjoyed working with us, if, in fact, he truly did.
The reason I was thinking about him was that I had an experience not long ago that has rattled me to my core, and I’m still not quite sure how to process it. It has me questioning my ability to assess reality, and that is a scary prospect, indeed. I suddenly feel as though I’ve been cast adrift without a tether. I don’t like it.
I’ve always found work friends, or friends you meet as a consequence of the work you do, to be unusual creatures. You can consider them good friends, but if you take a job in another company, it’s very rare that those friendships survive the transition. The first time I experienced this, I was shocked and disappointed. Over time, as it happened again and again, I came to expect it, but it still makes me sad.
Every once in a while, a really good work friend will outlast the job, though. These are usually what I call “foxhole friends”. The ones who went through hell and back with me. The ones who put up with psycho supervisors, work scandals, long periods of excessive overtime, extreme policy changes, crises galore. The ones I confided in. The ones who knew the gory details and didn’t share them with the rest of the crew.
I described the kind of friend I was talking about to ChatGPT, and I think it did a really good job of coming up with an image.
For the last 12 years, I had such a friend. We’ll call him Z. I told him things I didn’t tell anyone else, and nothing I ever said to him popped up anywhere else. That’s pretty amazing, because bridgetenders are the worst gossips you’ll ever meet. Since we mostly work alone, and administration, frankly, sucks at information sharing, and coworkers only cross paths during shift change, we usually have our entire shift to ruminate and make stuff up, and then spread it by phone, text, or at shift change. It’s like living in a small town of 22. And since one of the primary people who should be shutting gossip down when they hear it is actually heavily involved in it themselves, it can be all but impossible to squelch these rumors. So having someone you can confide in for a half hour a day, especially someone you have so much in common with, is priceless.
But I’ve been going through a bit of a rough patch of late. (See On Sticking Up for Yourself.) It has caused me to view things from a different angle. It has made me realize that there’s been a recurring pattern in my friendship with Z that didn’t bother me before, but now I felt the need to get to the bottom of it.
Z is very soft spoken and never stands up for himself. He truly hates conflict. I could relate to the hating conflict bit, but the allowing myself to be bullied bit was getting less palatable for me with each passing year. And while it was taking me years to build up to sticking up for myself, I had always been a fierce advocate for those whom I cared about, even as a small child. Do NOT mess with my peeps. (I remember screaming at a police officer for giving my sister a ticket when I was 7. I’m sure Officer Krupke found that quite amusing.)
Anyway, Z came by his aversion to conflict honestly, for reasons I won’t disclose, and I was honored that he shared those reasons with me. And those reasons were so intense that I looked the other way, at first, when I started noticing the following pattern, to wit:
Step 1: One of us would bring up a work issue to the other.
Step 2: The other would agree that it was, indeed, an issue.
Step 3: This would make me realize that I was not the only one who felt that way, and it would empower me to seek justice on the issue.
Step 4: I would stick my neck out, and usually royally piss off administration. Generally they would not budge, or would ignore me entirely.
Step 5: If I felt it was an issue that was truly worth fighting for, I’d double down, which would really get them angry. Then they’d start asking around to see if anyone else felt the way I did. If it was an issue specific to my drawbridge, naturally, they’d ask Z.
Step 6: At which point Z would cave in and say that no, he didn’t think that particular thing was a problem at all. Of course not. Everything was fine.
The result, of course, is that I was left looking like the crazy, whiny, hysterical, hypersensitive female, and the more it happened, the less I was taken seriously, until it has reached the point where they don’t even answer my emails regarding trivial things such as, hey, can we get some toilet paper, please?
So finally, when this happened the last time, I couldn’t take it anymore, and asked Z why he did this. I told him I understood why he couldn’t fight the fight, but why, when asked if he felt the same way, could he not at least have my back?
And you know what my foxhole friend said to me? My best work friend, who had been through thick and thin with me for the past 12 years? He said that all he wants to do is avoid conflict, so what he does is agree with everybody, no matter what they say, all the time.
And all of a sudden I realized that, my God, it’s true. He had never disagreed with me, ever. Not once. He reflected back everything I said, never once offering a new perspective.
So, I said, “Z, It’s okay to have your own opinion. You don’t have to always agree with me. I’d rather know where you stand.” But he said he didn’t want to have to debate. I said that actually most differences of opinion did not require debate. I then asked, ” So, if you’re talking to me, you’re liberal, and if you’re talking to someone who’s maga, you’d be maga?” Yes. “But you do have your own political opinions, right?” Yes.
And that’s when I realized I was looking at someone I didn’t know at all. A total stranger. It was like I had made up this imaginary friend, and that friend had just been killed, and I didn’t even get to say goodbye.
It kind of reminded me of the 2nd episode in season 1 of the original Star Trek called the Man Trap, where the creature appears to be whoever the person expects it to be, when in reality it’s a monster.
And my stranger didn’t seem the least bit remorseful, either. I said, “So, when I fight for things, and I win, you don’t mind reaping the benefits, but you are also okay with not having my back in the process.” Apparently.
I asked him to tell me some of the things I talked about that he didn’t truly care about, because I was curious. And his list was long. Horrifyingly long. As he was reciting it, I got this image of me cheerfully talking about those things, and the words coming out of my mouth and bouncing off this rubber wall in front of him, and landing in a pile at his feet. And I didn’t even see it happening for 12 years.
I felt like such a fool. I felt so betrayed. I cried all the way home.
The next day, I dreaded shift change with him. When he came in, I couldn’t look at him. I didn’t want to see the body of my dear friend inhabited by some heartless stranger. So I said what the shift change required and I left. The next day, same thing. I was still tense, but instantly, I could tell there was no tension at all coming from him.
As I walked down the bridge to my car, wondering why the change, it suddenly dawned on me. Of course there would be no more tension coming from him! If you are a person whose main goal is to avoid conflict, and I established the day before that I wasn’t going to continue the conflict, then he got everything he needed. Because he was never my friend in the first place, he hadn’t lost a thing.
Am I the only one who finds this whole thing weird beyond words? And if I could overlook that for 12 years, what else am I overlooking? Can I trust my own judgment? And if I can’t, what does that mean? How can I function if I can’t trust my own sense of reality?
I suppose I could ignore what I now know about Z and just settle comfortably back into my illusion. Because I sure am going to miss my imaginary friend, more than you’ll ever know. But I’d know it was an illusion. And I’m getting to the point in my life where I’m sick and tired of people feasting on the frosting of my friendship but not being willing to get into the cake itself. If you want to be my friend, you have to be willing to be there for both the thick and the thin of it. I just saw a meme on Facebook that reminded me of this.
When all is said and done, I feel sorry for Z. It must be exhausting, having to emotionally shape-shift like that all the time. Does he even know who he is? I don’t think he’s capable of experiencing true friendship. But then, I don’t suppose you can miss something you’ve never experienced in the first place.
How incredibly sad. And I was a damned good friend. Or would be. Or could have been.
God, my head hurts.
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