It’s interesting to me how people
become friends. There are people I’ve
spoken to any number of times, of whose lives I know intimate details, and yet
I wouldn’t think to text them on a day when I’m alone and wanting to talk. Then there are people who I haven’t seen for
years, and yet I know if I were to call them in the middle of the night, they
would be delighted to hear from me. So where and when do we cross that line
into friendship? Sometimes it’s a
strange beginning. Allow me to share the
memory of the moment when one of my strongest friendships was formed.
September 14, 2008
My roommate and I were viciously
attacked the other night. We fought an
epic battle and won a difficult victory.
It began when we heard an ominous buzzing from somewhere close by. You may not consider a buzz to be very
ominous, but I promise it can be. What
sound do you think the German bombers made during the battle of London? And the creature responsible for the buzz was
certainly ominous. It vaguely resembled
a hornet, but it was as long as my little finger and a threatening
orange-brown.
Upon sighting it, Taylor
and I immediately took action: we shrieked and fled from our chairs to the
other side of the room. The creature was
unafraid, even scornful—it circled us as if we were furniture, telling us that
we were no threat. Our normal weapons
against such invaders—sandals, mostly—would not have phased this monster, so
Taylor and I armed ourselves with the very most dangerous equipment we
possessed: sneakers.
We chased
the beast, but it refused to land, dodging Taylor’s projectile with a
sneer. It was clever, landing only among
our valuables, which we were unwilling to destroy for the sake of victory. At last we struck him. The first blow was mine, and my blinds still
bear the scar, but still the creature refused to back down. For a moment the terrible buzz ceased, and
cautiously the two of us searched for the body, wishing to be absolutely
certain.
Then Taylor screamed in terror
and leapt back as the creature hurtled from its hiding place to come at us
again. I batted it away, and Taylor fell
upon it in fury, crushing it several times.
With the body of our enemy broken on the floor, Taylor and I celebrated
with the awful shudders of disgusted women and went to wash our shoes.
A
simple incident, despite the overdramatic prose of an eighteen-year-old
writer. But it was enough. After that day, Taylor and I went from
cordial strangers cohabiting the same space to confidants and comfort, an
essential piece that made a temporary place into a home. Small wonder that I now look back on that
insect with some fondness—though I certainly wouldn’t like to meet another one.
