is nuts. We met years ago in our early twenties, Bill younger than I, as he mentioned ad nauseam over the many years of our friendship. I even have it in writing. One birthday card said "Happy Birthday. How do you think I feel having a friend as old as you?"
Government insurance came to British Columbia and that is where Bill and I met, a bunch of us milling around in the Personnel department where duties were being explained about the new car insurance system and suitable departments for each and everyone of us. Tall, dark and handsome Bill was not, but he was tall and talked to all and sundry without restraint. I was shy and wished I could be like him. Perhaps that is why I let a touch of meanness enter my comment about Bill's looks. Bill was tall, blonde and handsome and I should've said so up front. We were assigned to the same department, Underwriting, and spent months on end reading and re-reading the new Autoplan manual, a dry read of course; insurance isn't that exciting at the best of times.
To while away our empty days, we scrambled to take more than our turn making big vats of coffee for the entire floor. It was a big floor in the Royal Centre skyscraper and it contained a lot of people. Into the big floor, filled with dry and dusty people, the remnants of their previous employment in the grimness of private insurance, flew a bird of paradise in the form of my soon-to-be friend, Bill.
Bill entertained some of us by drawing cartoon-like sketches of us which we enjoyed very much. He had a gift. Years later after he left insurance, he attended Arts School in Alberta. My bird had flown.
I like clothes because I had none growing up. The first one up in the morning, dressed with the best of what was available. I've always liked to sleep in. Bill also liked good clothes. Price was no object and he had an elegant look whatever the type of garb. He had the best jeans, expensive and cut to perfection, lovely jackets of many colours, and of course shirts and sweaters to match. Whether dressed in well-cut trousers or the expensive designer jeans, he wore everything with panache. He looked like a person from the manor born, although I know he wasn't.
Bill was and is very extreme, whether it's eating too much, or not at all, smoking too much, or not at all, having a good time in any situation, no matter how bizarre, or so down in the dumps, you'd think he'd never climb out. But, he does. He's like a blazing fire sometimes and then is reduced to a glowing coal.
When Bill's in the eating-too-much phase, he says things like "I bought a big box of cookies and inhaled them when I got home." When he's in the not-eating-phase, usually after a visit from his mother who has a weight problem, he eats nothing, attends a gym, and the pounds melt away like magic. It's not magic of course, it's starvation. Recently, Bill e-mailed my sister about a weight gain he did not like. He said his stomach looked like a belted marshmallow.
Bill was always irreverent around the insurance office where we worked. Most of our co-workers liked it because they were a dull bunch, but my friend Fay didn't like his comment about a lovely sweater she was wearing. Bill said, "I like that sweater. It clings to you like a frightened monkey." I don't think Fay ever got over that comment and started wearing blouses.
Bill was and is a clean freak. There is no dirt or disorder he cannot handle. He is German so perhaps that accounts for it. He lived in a high-rise apartment building in the West End. If an unexpected visitor rang him from the lobby, he vacuumed his entire flat before they arrived on the 6th floor.
My sister and I took many road trips, while Bill preferred holidays in far, exotic places. He always stayed at the most expensive hotels and ate the finest foods. He had a small problem as he got older. He had a fear of flying. He convinced his doctor, and I sense nagging helped, to give him some powerful sedatives to take for the to-and-from trip to Brazil where some of his relatives lived. I hoped they weren't old Nazis but then I didn't like to ask. Anyway, Bill got on the plane and quaffed down all of the pills with a large brandy. He almost missed Brazil.
Bill and I and my sister met over the years for certain occasions. We liked to get together for the Academy Awards and had so much fun trashing the contestants and the guests. No one's dress, suit, hairdo, or figure were exempt from our caustic comments. It was so much fun. New Year's was another event. None of us had dates, so we met, drank big martinis and whatever food we could scrounge up. Bill dropped by one Halloween wearing a curly black wig and a big red nose. He said he was the trick and we were the treats.
So many fun times but I'll never forget Bill's favourite. We were blasting over the Lion's Gate bridge in Bill's TR something sports car. He decided to roll the top back which was most inconvenient for me who was riding in the back. When he looked back and saw me engulfed in the convertible top, he laughed so hard he could barely make it over the bridge to find a place to stop. He never let me forget that incident although I didn't think it was that funny.
Bill has been painting for years and continues to do so when he gets some inspiration. We have a couple of his pictures mounted prominently in our dining room where we spend so much time. My sister and Bill are in contact all the time by e-mail. I'm not into e-mail but I get to read his funny missives.
So many years have passed and so many memories to relive when the mood takes me. I found some old cards from Bill, sent over the years, and see that he has continued to harp on my great age. One example I particularly like, shows a dreadful picture of me ironing, while drinking martinis, wine bottles and full ashtrays strewn around the floor, and his comment in bold letters -- NO MATTER HOW OLD I GET, I'LL NEVER BE AS OLD AS YOU.
He's got that right, of course; I'll probably kill him. I love Bill.
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