My Dinner with Righty

I had dinner last night with a former neighbor of mine. We’re friends. The unlikeliest of friends.

You see, he’s a right wing nut job, and well, I’m a lefty freak. When we talk, we argue, then calm down, then argue some more. He hates liberals, I hate conservatives. He hates diversity, I thrive on it. He blames people, I justify their actions. He’s a gun-toting Texan with a right to kill, I’m a pacifist peacenik with a need to get along.

Complete opposites.

Yet, we’re friends.

On some level, I think we’re trying to figure out why the other exists. What is it that makes that kind of guy tick, and what is it about this particular one that makes us tolerant. We were not supposed to become friends. It wasn’t in the cards.

I can’t explain why we were there, in the same restaurant, sharing the same table and thoughts on life and all its inconsistencies, talking about issues from such distant vantages that we could barely see each other even though we were right there, sitting across from each other.

Of course, occasionally, I find myself nodding in agreement, and it surprises me.

After dinner, we walked back to his hotel and my car. When we both lived in the neighborhood, we used to take long ass walks – usually to Tower Records and Books, which sadly, is no longer there. And on those walks, we would talk. So tonight, after having a great meal, we stood there, under the night sky, talking some more, way longer than either of us had intended, before saying goodbye, until the next time work brings him this way.

I don’t get it. At all.

All I know is that for some reason, we’re friends. I guess that’s enough.