I Got No Game

Just got off the phone with my friend Phil.

We have been friends since second grade. So around 62 years.

Phil is rich. Legitimately so and by any measure. He bought a business with a partner, bought that partner out a few years later, and made a success of the business, which he has since sold.

He lives well. He has a beautiful home in Massachusetts, a beautiful home in Florida. Drives beautiful luxury cars. Travels. Always picks up the tab when we are together.

Although he has every justification to do so, he has never been condescending to me. Never makes me feel like a lesser man. He has known me for over 60 years, knows me inside and out, knows I should have made something of myself and never criticizes me for pissing my life away.

But it is in the air.

Phil is not an obnoxious prick; the air of success naturally surrounds him. He carries himself like a successful man. He projects it without slapping you in the face with it. People react to him in that way. You hear confidence in his voice.

Over the phone, as I talk, I feel weightless. There is no heft to anything I say. The stench of failure permeates every word. There is nothing I can say to counteract the failure I have made of my life.  It hangs in the air.

He asks me what I am up to and I feel like fucking Barney Fife as I answer. What am I up to? Struggling financially, working a menial job for menial pay, because I have to. There is nothing I can say to impress him, to prove my worth, to justify my existence on this planet. He fucking knows I blew it because he knows who I really am.

I brag on my sons, I celebrate Carol's health, because they are my heart and my soul. But he is also a great family man; I see him with his kids and he has a great relationship. That is one success we share.

I want to believe he does not judge me in his quiet moments, but that is a difficult sell. His business was financial, he did my taxes for Christ sake (for free) - he knows my income typically approximated that of a 13 year old. He must wonder what the hell went wrong.

I was feeling brutally honest today and told him the reason I hate going to work is because I have to go to work, when, by rites, I should be retired. We don't typically talk about money. He said it's a good thing to stay busy, that's why he continues to work part-time (from home as a financial consultant, making impressive bucks still). He is considerate, he tries to soothe me.

I told him I could accept that justification if I had a choice. I don't.

He had to cut the conversation short. He and Betty are in Florida. They are going golfing with friends and then out for dinner and drinks.

I am not in Florida. I am not going golfing. I am not going out for dinner and drinks.

Therein lies the rub.