From the time I met Bobby in seventh grade we were inseparable buddies.
However, we were never, as they say, "two peas in a pod;" rather, we were completely different.
Physically, Bobby, as far as most people were concerned, represented physical perfection. Taller than average, he was muscular without lifting weights, had perfect hair, a dark complexion (a permanent tan, he called it), and a handsome face.
Socially, he was confident and outgoing. Bobby, without saying so, generally believed he was they guy every other guy wanted for a friend and who every girl just wanted, period.
His girlfriends usually were a couple years older -- for maturity purposes, he always said -- and he had a level of "experience" that mostly involved kissing and sneaking feels. The latter condition, however, did not last for long. By the time he was in high school, he had advance far beyond that simple teen exploration.
I, meanwhile, was "the heavy guy" in our circle of friends. Average looking, at best, my hair was unruly, my nose a little too long and my legs too short for my torso. I always described myself as as 6-foot-6 from the waist up and 5-foot-6 from the waist down.
The whole waist down thing also posed a problem, at least in my mind. The day I turned 18, sitting alone in my dorm room at Gonzaga, I decided to pull out the measuring stick. It was about 5 1/2 inches, that's all; a little shorter than average and not particularly thick.
Socially, I was a mess.
At 18, I had never kissed a girl, never been on a date -- no proms and Christmas dances for me --and was a frequent masturbater. It was like a career, and I vowed that I would, by graduation, masturbate in every restroom at the school.
I could not imagine a girl wanting to be with me, and resisted attempts by friends -- including Bobby when we were in high school -- to fix me up.
I just did not want to be someone's blind date from hell, the subject of a story they would tell their friends for 50 years.
Still, as opposite as we were, Bobby and I just meshed. We did everything together, from ballgames to movies to countless hours of discussions involving everything from school to girls, mostly girls, and mostly his interaction with them.
He constantly tried to prop me up.
"I don't know why you are the way you are," he would preach. "You're a nice guy. Girls like nice guys. They go with guys like me, but they also know guys like me are full of shit, that we want more than friendship and less than relationships."
That never washed, though. I was so painfully shy that a chance greeting in the high school hallway left me breathless.
I had some female friends, but only those "going steady" with other people. It was safer that way.
Bobby and I were pretty much extensions of each other's families; as if each of us had two sets of parents and two sets of siblings.
During summer months and on weekends during school we always slept either at his house or mine, generally in the basements, which were not overly fancy in our 1960s residential development. All the houses were pretty much the same: three bedroom brick ranch homes with the master bedroom over a single garage.
Our respective basements were tiled and furnished with pieces that had been phased out of the living rooms upstairs. He had a fold-out sleeper couch in his. Mine had a couch and a love seat.
The basements provided privacy in general and cool temperatures in the hot Southern California summers; sorry for us, no air conditioning in either.
