Thinking about Chris, just now

     I miss Chris. 

                That was originally his name, before Chris Robison the man-boy became the famous writer, Augusten Burroughs. I’ve known him since he was 12. I remember him as a cute but obnoxious pre-teen. I desperately wanted to rescue him when he was mixed up with his psychiatrist’s cult, but there was nothing  I could do, then. I rejoiced when he finally made it out and started his adult life. We talked for hours on end over the telephone when he worked in advertising in Chicago and later, in San Francisco. He would call me, drunk, and we would talk about anything and everything. He read me most of his first book, "Sellivision" over the telephone.  It was a good book – not deep, but funny. Chris was always funny. 

                When I passed my master’s thesis defense, as a surprise, he overnight-mailed me two open round-trip plane tickets to Mexico, for me to take Jack, because I wanted to go. He just did things like that. 

                He built a house on the same street as his brother. In his writing, he could be cruel. I was glad that I never appeared in any of his books, but I was also glad that they were so popular.

                Then, Jack got into trouble with his chemistry. Chris got mentioned in a news report as Jack’s uncle. Chris stopped talking to both of us. Then, Chris broke up with his long-time partner, who I really liked. I always liked Chris, too, but he never responded to any of my communications, not one in the last five years. 

                Periodically, I hear or read something, or just think about something that I think he would find amusing and I stop. I’d like to talk to him to share it but I can’t. It’s like one of us died. 

I miss Chris.