He was just turning fifty, newly divorced, and never felt comfortable
anywhere. His ass started to ache while he sat at his desk at work. He felt
nauseous driving his own car, his broken windows unable to roll down.
Walking to the store became a battle against sore knees. His bed felt
sloped at night, scratchy second-hand blankets falling to the floor before
the sun came up. He couldn’t figure out what was wrong and thought maybe
his body wasn’t his anymore. Maybe he just needed a couch. He didn’t even
have a goddamn couch. He used to have one but his wife won it in the
divorce. Now some guy named Ben was enjoying the couch, getting
comfortable, probably getting his back scratched.

His name was Ben too, but he preferred Benjamin. His wife never called him
Ben, though she tried to at first. Maybe she wasn’t into three-syllable
names. Making her say Benjamin was almost like some kind of penance for
speaking to him at all. Now she could say it one-syllable style all she
wanted: Ben this, Ben that, Ben, Ben, Ben, Ben. Her name was Lou.

Benjamin smoked pot now, hoping it would help him relax. His comfort levels
were at an all-time low, even when he was high. Outside the new cannabis
store, he met a man named Dylan, who was frantically looking for enough
change in his truck’s cup holder to buy a shake joint. Benjamin gave him
two more dollars and Dylan gave him a tamale out of a cooler in the
backseat. They got their weed and then debated the best albums to smoke out
to. Turns out they were both into obscure old post-punk bands. When Dylan
mentioned The Dog-Faced Herman, Benjamin thought there was strong friend
potential. He hadn’t made a new friend in a long time. In fact, he lost
most of his friends in the divorce. Lou actually made a list with eight
names and crossed out six of them. “You can keep the rest,” she said, and
her lawyer signed it like an official document. One of the remaining names
belonged to his dead friend, Benny. Two syllables. No need to say them out
loud anymore.

Benjamin and his new friend Dylan met up two days later and they drank beer
and listened to Big Black in Dylan’s garage as they talked about bands they
saw in the 90s. Dylan’s younger housemates only listened to techno, folk,
and techno-folk and didn’t like his old records.

“You ever see Swans?” Benjamin asked. Dylan looked confused, like he didn’t
know who that was. Benjamin got worried for a second but then Dylan cracked
a smile and started laughing.

“Shit, man,” he said. “They were so loud, I threw up and had to leave
before the third song. Does that count?”

Benjamin laughed along with Dylan and he thought about how nice that
sounded, two men laughing about vomit and noise inside a garage. It felt
carefree, almost like joy. Then he realized that he felt comfortable for
the first time in months. Maybe it was the couch they were sitting on. He
found himself admiring it now, though it seemed like any ratty old couch.
It was golden, almost velvet-like fabric, kind of dirty around the edges.
One of the corners had been clawed by a cat or maybe chewed on by a dog. It
was in bad shape in that particular spot for sure. But nothing in or on his
body ached and Benjamin said as much out loud. “I’m feeling really good.”
He pulled a joint out of his front shirt pocket.

Dylan changed the record to Shadowy Men On a Shadowy Planet. A couple of
minutes passed. The sound of twangy surf-rock guitar mingled with the
marijuana smoke. “I feel good, too,” said Dylan.

“How old are you?” Benjamin asked. He felt like the conversation was
getting real.

“Forty-three,” said Dylan. He ran his fingers over the scalp on his head as
he said this, as if making sure his hair was still there. Dylan felt too,
that suddenly over the span of the last fourteen spoken words, they were
suddenly on a different level. Personal, even. They were both at an age
where new friends didn’t come along so easily. When they were in their
twenties, the Internet wasn’t as popular yet and friendships were made in
real life, not through screens. Dylan remembered bonding with other men
about music and then losing track of these friends a year or two later when
they got married or had kids or moved to Canada or Spain. Actually none of
his friends had moved to Spain. Two of his girlfriends moved to Spain. Back
when his friends were in their twenties, they were all seeking something,
even when they acted casual about it. Dylan didn’t know what to think about
seeking. He never thought about it. If he ever did think about it, he’d
probably fall asleep.

Benjamin was a seeker. He once read a book by The Dalai Lama. He was vegan
once. He loved genealogy. He once only dated Jewish girls. He skydived. He
lit candles and sometimes meditated.

“This used to be my make-out record,” said Dylan.

Benjamin thought about that a moment. He forgot all about make-out records.
He used Cocteau Twins once to seduce a goth girl. His ex-wife used Serge
Gainsbourg on him. A good make-out record used to have a lot of value,
Benjamin thought. He listened to the cool galloping bass line of the
Shadowy Men and realized it was the theme song from the TV show Kids in the Hall. “This guy is such a good bass player,” he said.

“Yeah,” said Dylan. “But did you know he died a long time ago?”

Besides weekends, the schedules of Benjamin and Dylan didn’t seem to allow
them to hang out together during the week. Benjamin commuted a couple of
hours to teach semiotics at a college somewhere outside of town and spent
most of his time on campus. Dylan worked swing shift at a Costco but failed
a drug test and now worked early mornings for something called PriceCo. He
was always telling Benjamin what the best off-brand cookies were. Dylan was
starting to gain weight with this new job, but he wore it well. His clothes
actually fit better.

Sometimes, during the course of the day, they would text band names that
they just remembered to each other: “Sandy Duncan’s Eye… Suburban
Lawns…Coffin Break…godheadSilo…Steel Pole Bathtub.” They would respond with
exaggerated monosyllabic words like “Yesssss…Oooooh…Fuuuuuuck.” Once
Benjamin texted: “Ever see Babes in Toyland play?” and Dylan responded with
a selfie holding a concert ticket from 1992. Benjamin thought that was
funny and started coming up with different photo responses for some of the
bands they reminisced about. Killdozer = a photo of Flannery O’Connor.
Helmet = a brick wall. Seaweed = a T-shirt that said Tacoma on it.

One weekend, they drove to Seattle to see a Butthole Surfers show. On the
way up from Portland, they listened to CDs and talked about their lives,
even their childhoods. Up until that point in their friendship, it was as
if life began in the late 80s or early 90s for both of them. But now, they
went back further into their respective histories. The deep cuts.

Benjamin talked about his parents’ divorce, his brother dying of a drug
overdose when he was in middle school, the time he saw his high school art
teacher have a seizure.

Dylan squinted up into the glaring clouds rolling over them as they sped
northbound. He realized that he only talked to other people about music, TV
shows, and pot. Maybe the last time he talked to anyone about anything else
was when he tried therapy at the age of thirty-five. And he had only done
that at the suggestion of his doctor. With Galaxie 500 playing quietly in
the CD player, Dylan talked about almost drowning when he was eight and how
he was scared of rivers and oceans, he talked about a babysitter he had
when he was eight who pulled on his penis to see how far it would stretch,
he talked about his little league baseball team winning the city
championship when he was eight. A lot of formative things happened when he
was eight.

“By the time I was twelve,” Dylan said, “I was kind of just numb or
unimpressed with life. Then I heard Black Flag.”

The air felt suddenly thin in the car. Two friends lightheaded with the
freedom to reveal anything.

“It’s weird getting older,” Benjamin said. “When I was married, I was
content but restless. Now, I’m not content or restless. Just
aimless and uncomfortable. Who would have guessed?”

Then Benjamin told Dylan about his affairs, his infidelities with the
truth, his regrets, his back taxes, the year he flunked a student out of
spite, and the time he checked out of a drug rehab and did cocaine four
days later.

Dylan told Benjamin he once slashed the car tires of an ex, that he stole
clothes from the expensive Goodwill downtown, and that he had never dated
anyone for more than five months. For a moment, it seemed like Dylan was
going to cry, but he just stopped talking. He sniffed a couple of times as
the CD faded into silence. They were back to being two awkward guys in a
slow-moving car.

Up ahead was an accident. One car flipped onto its top, another one with
its passenger side smashed in. Glass everywhere. A man sat on the back
bumper of an ambulance with his head in his hands.

“Oh, man,” said Benjamin, as they slowly moved past it all. “That must
really suck.”

At the show, the audience felt subdued and tired, as if everyone had also
driven three hours to get there. Benjamin and Dylan nodded along with the
thumping bass but in their heads they were thinking the same thing:

What happened to rock and roll? Shouldn’t this be better? Is it the
band’s fault, or my fault?

They cringed while watching a man probably older than them, wearing a
button-down dress shirt and khaki pants stage-dive into a group of annoyed
millennials. That could be me, they were both thinking. I’m glad that’s not me, they both thought. But Benjamin was also
wondering if Dylan wanted to be the stage-diving type.

After the show, their ears rang unpleasantly as they dragged their feet
down the sidewalk trying to remember where the car was. Their T-shirts and
zip-up hoodies were damp and pungent with sweat.

Benjamin asked Dylan, “How old do you think is too old to stage-dive?”

Dylan rubbed his chin and pondered before saying, “Probably thirty.” It
seemed to Benjamin a safe—if not slightly ageist—answer. But he was glad to
think that Dylan wouldn’t ever stage dive at a show they attended together.
“Or forty,” Dylan said quickly, looking at the hair on his knuckles.
Benjamin shot him a look to see if he was joking. Dylan shrugged, saying,
“I was thirty-nine when I stage-dived at a Regina Spektor show.”

“Regina Spektor?” said Benjamin, almost laughing.

“It was the encore,” said Dylan, trying to justify his behavior. “Some of
her songs are pretty punk.”

Benjamin was secretly a Regina Spektor fan, so he felt this was a fair
statement. They started singing “Your Honor.”

I kissed your lips and I tasted blood.

Da-na-na-na-na-na-na Da-na-na-na-na

I asked you what happened and you said there’d been a fight

Da-na-na-na-na-na-na Da-na-na-na-na

They located the car finally. It was on a quieter side street with no
parking meters. They wanted to smoke a joint but they couldn’t remember
what the Seattle marijuana laws were. They rolled the windows down, pushed
in the lighter, and took their chances.

“Do you think we’re getting too old for this?” Benjamin asked. “This, uh,
rock and roll?”

“I thought I’d always go to shows,” Dylan said. “I pictured my hair getting
gray and my clothes just like, you know, transitioning to nice jackets,
maybe some ties. I thought I could look like the FBI or William S.
Burroughs. But now I think I’d just like to not be noticed. You know? I
just want to enjoy the show.”

Spacemen 3 was coming out of the speakers as they smoked. The layered
guitars sounding especially psychedelic in the dark. The men sat silently,
letting the smoke get in their heads. The whole moment felt, to them,
disconnected from the rest of the world. If the car had a sunroof, they’d
roll it back so the pot and music could turn their heads into balloons.
They could float away.

“You’d look good in a Burroughs suit,” Benjamin said. He was feeling good.
He wanted to give his friend a compliment.

“I’d do what?” said Dylan. His ears were shot from the show.

Benjamin started to reply but started to laugh and couldn’t stop. Dylan
laughed too. A strange, tittering sound from the back of his throat that
almost sounded like crying. Benjamin turned on the dome light to make sure
Dylan wasn’t crying and they started laughing more. Their faces turned red
and tears did come.

When Benjamin returned home the next morning, he scanned his cupboards for
food and realized they hardly held anything that was good for him. A box of
Frosted Mini-Wheats cereal, some Planters Cashews, chocolate cover graham
crackers, a jar of peanut butter, and a bottle of Vitamin D for the cloudy
months. He opened the refrigerator and saw an abundance of healthy food
that all belonged to his roommates. Leafy vegetables spilling off their
shelves, various brands of hummus and organic condiments, almond milk, bags
of dates and lentils, and some kind of meat replacement that was supposed
to be better than real meat. Cold brew coffee. They were a lesbian couple
that Benjamin met through a friend of a friend. They owned the house and
rented out the basement bedroom to him. He sometimes heard them upstairs
laughing about something. He imagined that they made jokes about his meager
food and cow’s milk, which was always pushed to the back of the fridge,
like they didn’t want to know it even existed. “What is wrong with this
fifty-year-old man and his box of Lucky Charms,” he imagined them
whispering on some nice couch in their master bedroom.

Benjamin looked at a loaf of bread in his retro breadbasket on the kitchen
counter. He picked it up and sniffed it and then squeezed it into the
fridge. He’d always be afraid to look at it after that and it would
mysteriously disappear a week later.

He went to his room and started to feel panic about his existence. This new
part of his life was maybe too blank. Benjamin had nothing on his walls, no
new goals, a job he wasn’t excited about, and he felt like even his clothes
were falling apart or not fitting him anymore. He wondered if he was going
to be alone the rest of his life and if his hair was falling out. He looked
in the mirror and could tell he was losing his looks rapidly. He had heard
other people talk about how their fifties were a great time, but those were
people who planned ahead and had good luck, not people like him who
clumsily imploded his own life. He felt shame about being divorced, the way
it was like an announcement about his imperfection and how it stained the
people close to them as a couple. Benjamin and Lou, never to be again.

He tried to think of something good in his new life and he pictured Dylan
in his mind. Dylan was probably a friend for life unless he screwed that up
too. Dylan was a good thing. He almost felt confused by how nice it was.

In one corner of his room, there was a tiny desk with a pile of bills and
student papers to grade. His laptop had a Spongebob Squarepants sticker on
it that his ex-wife’s niece put on it just a week before the word divorce was uttered. Under his desk was a paper bag from Burger
King that was full of snotty Kleenex from a cold he was getting over.
Benjamin started to sob.

Dylan woke up at his place and made coffee and thought about walking up to
the dispensary for a couple of joints. Maybe he could drive one over to
Benjamin’s place, he thought. He’d just gone on a road trip with him
though. Maybe he should smoke up by himself for a change. He plugged his
headphones into his phone and found a Superchunk playlist.

He went outside and felt the morning sun warm up his face. He hadn’t shaved
for a few days and could feel his thick whiskers on his jaw and neck.
Sometimes it felt like he was wearing a mask. A song called “Yeah, It’s
Beautiful Here Too” played in his ears and gave Dylan a bounce in his walk.
He texted Benjamin and wrote in all caps: SUPERCHUNK.

At the dispensary, Dylan waited in line behind a young guy with a lot of
questions for the employee and a mother and daughter who were filling out
paperwork. He felt his phone buzz and looked at the reply from Benjamin. It
was a photo but it was too blurry to tell what it was. For some reason, it
made him laugh and he texted back, “Are you having a stroke, old man?”

The next photo came in clearer. It was a dick pic. Dylan double-checked to
make sure it came from Benjamin’s number and it had. He looked at the penis
for a while to see if he could tell if it was his friend’s or if it was
maybe some random image from the Internet. He blew it up on his phone to
look closer and then noticed the mother and daughter glancing at his phone.
He put it away quickly as an employee asked him what he was in the mood
for. Dylan asked him if he had something good to help fight off fatigue and
help wake him up.

“We just got more of this great strain called White Shadow,” the employee
said. He explained what it was and Dylan bought two, pre-rolled.

Walking home, Dylan wondered about the dick pic and how to reply. Instead
of going inside, he went straight to his truck. He sat in the driver’s seat
and waited for his phone to buzz again. He looked at the photo again and
realized that it was Benjamin. He saved the two photos—the blurry one and
the clear one and he swiped back and forth on the screen of his phone.

His friend was reaching out to him, he decided. He didn’t want to judge
this. There was something brave about it. Maybe it was foolish or
desperate, but who could say? He hadn’t had a friend this close in a long
time. He looked at the two joints in his lap and then closed his eyes,
trying to concentrate on what this moment felt like inside himself. It was
dark but also felt strongly present. He started his truck and decided he
would share.