postcard-from-l-a: What it takes to be a good friend

Friends. Some just drift away, tethered to us only by the occasional Christmas card or graduation announcement. Others stick.

Jack sticks. A distant friend my first year in college, he rescued me when I forgot to renew my dorm contract after sophomore year. I needed to sponge off someone with an apartment. We became major friends after that.

How big a deal is Jack? We named our fourth kid after him. If we have a fifth kid, we’ll name her after him too.

Jack, Doug, Dan, Bill, Paul, Chris, Eugene, Bob. T-Bone too. Stop me, because there are about a dozen guys I’d call good, close friends. Permit me this easy, cheesy notion: The man who finishes with the most friends wins.

Here’s why: In a world that doesn’t honor honesty, friends do. They like it when you’re truthful, especially spot-on, mercilessly so. There is truth in all humor, and there is truth in every friendship.

Friends dissect your weak spots, your propensities, your secret loves. I love Glen Campbell songs more than I probably should, and my friends know that. They know that politically I’m a Chevrolet — blandly in the middle of every issue. They mock me for that, as they certainly should.

I ask from friends the same world-class irreverence wielded by my demented Irish uncles, who could find humor at the most inappropriate times — at a deathbed, or a wedding altar or some other tragic milestone better suited to tears.

Friends also call. Not often. Just enough that it surprises you. You know what it takes for a guy to pick up a phone? He’d rather pop a kidney. But that’s how you know he’s a friend, because he calls.

Not only that, friends know right when to call. I’m rarely at loose ends, but I was once, in Florida, where I’d gone to take a job I didn’t like in a city I didn’t love, leaving my family behind in New Orleans to finish out the school year. Posh and the kids had come to visit, and when they left, my heart collapsed, for I wouldn’t see them for another month at least.

The phone rang. A friend.

I’ve lost touch with that friend, but I’ll never forget that one call, the timing of it, the right voice at the right time.

As you age, I think you grow more reliant on old friends, your touchstones to the past, the ones who remember your folks, your first hangover, the way you used to throw a ball before your joints rusted over and your shoulder always ached. The ones who remember your father’s favorite swear words.

As author C.S. Lewis once said: “Friendship is born at that moment when one man says to another: ‘What! You too?’”

At a certain age, you slow down on new friends. At this stage of life, I wonder if each new one might be my last. Friendships take a little time. It’s a trust thing. Can I be honest with you? Can I say inappropriate things? Will you smirk at the right times? Will you listen?

I have this one friend. Helluva guy, but he doesn’t really listen. He entertains. He’s a hoot to be around. He’s smart in that rascally way funny friends have. He tells stories like Aesop. But he doesn’t listen. He never calls. Still, somehow, a friend.

Rhymer used to listen. Hall of Fame friend. Passed away a year ago — only a billion heartbeats too soon. Rhymer always called at just the right time. Still have his number in my phone, and I’ll never delete it. When I lose that number, I lose Rhymer.

Siskin calls. He’s a relatively new friend, and I know he’ll stick because he calls. Siskin calls, and he listens. He listens better than I do, which really frosts me. In a recent call, I’d forgotten that his kid was going to school in Chicago. If it’s one thing you do for a friend, it’s to keep track of his kids. Never stalk a friend or sweat the details. But always remember his kids.

Pasadena therapists Bill and Ginger Bercaw note that, while some studies show the correlation between friendship and well-being to be slightly stronger for middle-aged women than for men, it is clear that quality of life is enhanced for both genders by having a close circle of friends.

“In a nutshell, friends make life much richer than going it alone,” Bill Bercaw said.

Speaking of kids, there’s this one — mine. I borrowed her car the other day and found a full keg of beer rolling around in the trunk, sloshing away in the heat and traffic of Los Angeles while approaching maximum combustion.

Whom do you call at a moment like that: A bartender? The bomb squad?

Know who you call? A friend.