At Boston University, I befriended a quiet musician named Fred. We had many deep late-night conversations. Then, one day, he lost his mind and had to return home to Maryland.
Fred and I stayed in contact throughout his recovery. He still possessed his charm, humor, and musical prowess. Adjusting to his newly-medicated life wasn’t easy. He suggested I come visit—he didn’t have many friends anymore.
The trip to Bethesda from Penn Station was painless. Just one quick transfer at Washington Union Station, and I was there. We didn’t go straight to his parents’ house. First, a pit stop at the supermarket. His mother had written a grocery list that looked like it had been scribed in the 15th century. She might’ve used a quill.
Fred nearly tore the list into pieces, but I insisted he hand it over as a souvenir.
“That might be worth money,” I told him. He handed it over. God knows where it is now.
Fred’s mother, Madeline, greeted me like one of her own—two kisses on each cheek, a wrist squeeze, multiple hugs, and a stream of “so happy to see you!”
I bonded with Fred’s entire family. They hated it when I left, always insisting I come back soon.
Every couple of months, I’d return for a three-to-five-day visit. On one trip, Fred got sick suddenly and needed bed rest. His father and sister were out of town. It was just Madeline and me, tending to Fred—chatting until nearly 1 a.m., taking long walks, laughing over silly TV shows.
As the years went on, it wasn’t Fred who kept in touch—it was Madeline. She sent weekly emails updating me on Fred’s mental health.
Fred’s younger sister, Jackie, moved to Chicago to pursue dentistry.
Fred’s parents eventually divorced.
Once the divorce was final, Madeline’s emails came daily.
“When can I see you?”
“I’m coming to New York for a conference—would be nice to stay with you somewhere.”
I thought about checking in with Fred—see how his mother was doing emotionally—but didn’t want to worry him. So yes, I met Madeline in a hotel lobby. We had drinks, laughs—it felt like the old days in Bethesda, minus the fireplace and the howling wind against the windows.
“I’m staying here,” Madeline winked. “The rooms are phenomenal. Wanna check them out?”
Oh god. My biology short-circuited. I did want to check out the room—and much more. But Madeline was Fred’s mother. That would be weird… or would it? It had been years since Fred and I shared a beer. We were well past our college years.
“What the hell,” I found myself saying.
Next thing I knew, we were in her hotel room. Madeline was leaning against a pillar, sipping wine, suddenly dressed in this one-piece, semi-transparent outfit. I’ll never forget that pattern: a hummingbird hovering around each nipple, and a cluster of roses doing their best to obscure what couldn’t be obscured.
It was a sleepless night—sweat, longing, yelps, and a crap ton of alcohol.
After that, contact with Madeline faded. Where her emails had been weekly, I started hearing from her twice a month. Then quarterly. Then just a Happy Birthday message once a year. For the past decade, I don’t know if she still walks this earth.
Fred, wherever you are—please forgive me. You were a great friend with an unforgettable family. Maybe this Mother’s Day weekend, you’ll celebrate with joy and lots of music.
And maybe, just maybe, the affiliate link above reminds you of life’s stranger pleasures. Celebrate them.
