Lunch

I’ve known Alan since either ’65 or ’66 – it’s so far back I have trouble figuring it out. I came into his life as a student, progressed to a tutee, and somewhere along the line (it may have been at one of three thoroughbred racetracks at which we would hold our tutorial sessions) became a friend. In about ’71, I took a spiritual sabbatical that lasted over ten years, and we hooked up again. I moved back to Cambridge in ’88, and for the last eighteen years we’ve had a weekly lunch date.

We started at Frank Fox’s sandwich shop on Mass Ave. He had inexpensive but decent wine, but you couldn’t really call his Classico a sandwich. It was something more, a small piece of heaven. Eventually, things soured with Frank, and we moved on to the Casablanca and six or seven other joints. The French fries with the burgers went, and then with the advent of great antacid drugs, returned. Recently, we’ve been very happy at the B Side Lounge, where they have an excellent chicken club.

Over the course of these eighteen years, our friendship has mutated into something rare. Sure, we relate current news and tell stories, but mostly we just banter, enjoying the choice of the words that relate whatever might come to mind. And we laugh. You see, we have shared the thick and thin of two lifetimes. We have talked about all the friends, family, girl friends, wives, marriages, divorces, children, grandchildren, the books we’ve read, are reading, or have written, the countless presidential administrations, the wars, the illnesses, the deaths, the dreams, and the amazing strokes of good fortune. The extremes – the horrific and the comedic – have merged together into what sometimes appears to me as a numinous whiteness.

Now, one might naturally wonder if this fog is only a function of the fine spirits we consume at lunch. I think not, because, over the years, the unfortunate necessity of moderation has shown us its pinched face. Alas, we simply split a single bottle of red, yet – that slightly glowing aura still has us in its grasp. It’s wonderful. We’re very much our selves, but we are also each other. It is, I think, as close as I’m going to get to church or organized religion.

When I think about what Alan has given to the world, I’m humbled and amazed. He was an extraordinary teacher forty years ago, yet he has only gotten deeper into his understanding of the works he teaches. A river of humanity has been exposed to his fine mind and finer heart. I was lucky to have him. I am proud to be part of that river.

One of the qualities that Alan and I have shared, even as young men, is an appreciation for the uncertainties. At this point, looking at the future has become both laughable and, I confess, a bit spooky. My feeling is that if there are a few more lunches with Alan out there, I’m OK with whatever comes.

Oh, yes, and my love to you, as always.

Tono Hixon