A tribute to a good friend

Meet an old friend of mine, Johnny. I’ve known him since I was 12, that was when my dad introduced him to me on one of those drunken new year drinking sessions he had at home with his officemates. I didn’t care much for him back then, of course. Coca-cola was still the best all time drink in those younger (and more naïve?) days. It was only in recent years that I’ve come to appreciate the companionship that Johnny always provided.

As the alcoholic son of an alcoholic father, I believe that I have inherited my dad’s taste for the finer spirits. Sure beer is always good, and the occasional brandy or wine is surely welcome, but special moments deserve more, and so while I write this, Johnny is by my side. But before I can reveal the occasion, let me introduce me to Mr. Walker. Mr. Johnny Walker (Black) to be precise. A dear friend of mine, for sure.

Imagine me going back to my father’s house, in a way, the return of a prodigal son. The smile on his face is evident as I shake his hand, just as equals do. We are now both men. Long gone is the worn out old leather belt that he used to torment me with, replaced with soothing words of wisdom and most times, unsolicited advice. We take our places by the outdoor sala, as my mom asks whether we’d like to sip on some juice or ice cold water. My dad points to the bar, and mother understands that Johnny is to join the party. Clearly such a homecoming is deserving of fine spirits, indeed!

On a new year’s eve, up north, the very tip of the main island of Luzon, I and a good friend of mine find ourselves starting a year that would see us through different paths to the same lonely end (well, kinda). Who best to toast us than my good friend Johnny. Sure, the Frenchman, Remy Martin was alright for the halfway stop at La Union, but for new beginnings, the occasion calls for such a familiar advocate.

A year later, another good friend stops by my home, penniless and in need of an uplifting spirit to soothe his nerves. He spies Johnny sitting idly on the top shelf, and calls upon him. I silently protest, seeing that this man knows not the difference between isopropyl alcohol and the finest scotch whiskey. I test his resolve, offering a round of beer instead. No objections, as he flashes an approving smile. Not a drop marked Black Label should be spilt on account of an unappreciative palette.

On the night of yet another friend’s homecoming, as we got out of the car to greet him, he hands me a bag of heavy black boxes. The gold letters made my heart skip a beat, and as he tells me that one of those little boxes was for me, the suggestion of that familiar taste just as soon arouses a Pavlovian response. A naked supermodel might as well have passed by and I wouldn’t have noticed. (Hmm, well, I probably would have. Yes, I definitely would’ve. Okay, I take that last sentence back.)

With a heavy heart, I introduce Johnny to a group of friends at their house a few days back. It was a selfish gesture, I thought no one would dare take a fancy at him, with the top hat and cane. I imagined having the whole bottle to myself and another friend, wimpy females had no business measuring themselves up to Johnny, anyway. Better they stick to their pretentious sugar-loaded multicolored “ladies’ drinks”. To my horror, they wanted a sip. Then another, then another still! What the…? It was downright blasphemous! I held back tears as Johnny was hog-tied and gang-raped by a bunch of Jose-loving, original-sin-bearing, cat-loving members of the weaker half of the species! Pretty soon it was all over, as Johnny lay on his back, exhausted of all liquids, victims of the coven. I laid a wreath on his tombstone the very next morning.

*****

Tonight, as I will myself to sleep with thoughts of nothing, Johnny softly whispers into my ears. An auspicious occasion, this is! A man alone and weary of the world, retiring to yet another day. I take up a glass and soon a sliver of golden liquid fire drowns ice cubes lying in wait. No better time for a good friend as this.