Three rules

I stayed in last Friday night to clean my desk. Boring, I know, but it had to be done, and I’d been putting it off for too long.


We all have those things that we neglect for a while and in the process of that neglect, we forget what’s under the mess and lose the trail that started at the point where we got busy.

Most of what we forget about ends up being trashed, of course. I tend to pull receipts of my pockets and leave them to pile up. I hang onto envelopes to save the addresses but then forget to throw the paper away when I’ve written down what I need. Dried out pens laze around under papers on my desk instead of being tossed out the moment they quit on me.

Last weekend, I filled three plastic bags to feed the recycling bin and a fourth bag went into the garbage. But underneath the garbage were a few gems, like there often are: some photographs I hadn’t seen in a while, city maps I thought I’d left behind somewhere, and a couple of letters that hadn’t made their way into the box where I keep my most secret, sacred things.

The first letter I found was in a white envelope, with my name and past address written in pencil. There was no return address. It took me a second to place the handwriting as belonging to my friend Carlos.

I first met Carlos when I was a teenager hanging out in places I wasn’t old enough to be in. Carlos was several years wiser than me. We’d met through a mutual friend and I felt an instant connection to him. One of the first things he told me about himself was about a time when his family had sent him for psychiatric treatment, against his will. While his story’s circumstances and details were different than mine, Carlos was the first person I’d met who had experienced anything close to what I had. It instantly made me feel better, because until then I’d believed that no one would ever be able to understand me.

I knew we would be friends. There was a reason we’d met. It felt destined.

Carlos was an incredible visual artist, but his talent was balanced with pain, intensity, and a lot of trouble. It was on and off, but to me, whatever he got into, or ran into, never reflected on the depth of his kindness, or on our friendship.

There were times when it wasn’t always easy to get a hold of Carlos. He would leave to travel for indefinite periods of time. Or, when in Toronto, he would disappear intermittently, or change phone numbers or living arrangements without any notice. I remember he once popped out from between two payphones at Queen and Bathurst, where he’d been hiding after running out on his tab at the old Q Bar. It was the first time I’d seen him in months.

Despite the breaks in communication that sometimes got in between us, our friendship lasted close to 10 years, until Carlos was deported to Portugal a few years back.

He’d had some court dates and his lawyer had talked to him about the possibility of deportation. He knew it could be coming. I remember visiting with him not long before the court date that would determine his fate. He’d been planning on his sister being there to help build his case.

When that court date rolled around, his sister never showed.

The letter I found last weekend from Carlos was the last one he’d sent to me within Canada, from the jail he was waiting in until it came time to fly out.

“My sister didn’t come through,” he’d written. “I’m hurt and disappointed. I hope we can stay in touch.”

In the letter Carlos had also talked about the alternate outcome he’d hoped would happen: that he would have been staying in Canada, that he would have been back downtown by then, and that I could finally meet his daughter, who’d been living with her mom since I first met Carlos, and who I’d heard so much about over the years.

“My sister didn’t come through…” I don’t know why, but seeing those words again, and being reminded of this news, really stuck with me throughout the weekend.

You never know when you’re someone’s last chance. Or maybe sometimes you do, but you blow it anyway.

Have I ever bailed on someone like that? Have I ever had someone depending on me to come through to such an extent? We all get asked for favours. We all have expectations upon us.

We all let each other down.

Of course, the expectations that are on us aren’t as clear, or as life changing, as what Carlos was going through.

But still, I thought about how much it hurts me when people bail on plans, even though I’ve done it often enough.

I know things happen. We get sick, we run late, we get caught up at work. When we bail on a plan, we’re thinking of ourselves. We’re relieved to be let out of an obligation. We focus on what we need in that moment – freedom from a plan – rather than wonder if the person we just broke a date with really needs us that day.

We temporarily (conveniently?) forget about being on the other side, the side that sometimes says you need to talk about something, or you need to feel like a little less alone, or you just need to get out. We forget the how crushing it is when a plan you're excited about falls through.

It sucks when you have a plan, something you really want to do, and you juggle your schedule to make sure it can happen. You decline other invitations because you already have a date with a friend. You plan ahead and do things in advance or put things off until later, because sometimes you have to make the time. You make the time, and then the day comes and you get that message that the other person isn’t going to make the time: “I’m really sorry, I can’t make it…”

I know I’ve done this to other people. What were the consequences? If there were any, they weren’t felt by me. Anytime we bail, it’s left to the person we’re leaving stranded to deal with the gap in time. It becomes their problem, their failed evening.

Whether the commitment is big – helping someone out of a bad situation – or small – meeting a friend for coffee – I don’t want to be that person who doesn’t come through. I want to do better when it comes to keeping my commitments.

I remember how one night, I worked out the three main rules of friendship with a friend of mine – another friend I haven’t seen in years, actually:

1. Don’t lie.
2. Be there when you say you’re going to be there.
3. Don’t fuck me over.

I only got one postcard from Carlos once he made it over to Portugal. That must have been three years ago. I can’t remember how long it’s been for sure, because the message is tucked away with my other letters.

But I know there hasn’t been any other word since. Carlos, if you’re out there, I’m still around, waiting. I’m still your friend.

I’ll still come through, however I can, wherever you are.