My friend Beth cannot understand why she is my friend. She cannot fathom why I trust her, and in most of her communiqués (electronic or otherwise), there is the thinly veiled implication that my judgment of character is lacking. She says I give her “too much credit,” which, in a way, makes it seem as if my expectations of her are simultaneously too high and too low. Beth is often ambivalent about things, in particular anything concerning her, her future and her motives. She has never, however, been ambivalent about my implied lack of judgment.
And perhaps her concerns are legitimate. I am not above the occasional mistake, to be sure (I’m humble enough to admit it). And after all, Beth was seventeen years my junior, and a high school student, when we first became friends. Men my age don’t do such things, I should think. After all, my daughter is about the same age as Beth, and she has never been my friend. What I should be doing is latching on to people less humorous, less concerned. Less interesting. I should be worried about forming relationships through alcohol and sports, as creatures of my sex are known to do (some male friendships, I am sure, are center around season tickets, and that’s it). Making a connection with a high school sophomore really makes no sense, given the gap in years, perspective and wisdom (she is so much wiser than me). Yet it happened, though I’m not exactly sure how. It started with the movies, I think, with the words “Andy Dufresne.”
Andy Dufresne is the main character in The Shawshank Redemption, one of Beth’s favorite (perhaps her all-time favorite) movies. Beth has always been a videophile. She reports watching movies before going to school during her junior year, when she had first period off. She watches a movie every day, I am almost sure, and there are few titles one can name that she has not seen or, at the very least, cannot report something about. She has admitted more than once that she wishes her life were like a movie, to which I always reply, “Well isn’t it? I have movie star looks.”
When we spoke of Shawshank, which I perceived to be a fine film, but certainly not more powerful than, oh, Saving Private Ryan, her counterpoint to my argument was simply “Andy Dufresne.”
Andy Dufresne…she said it in a tone that implied need I say more? In most cases, with most other people, I would have replied Damn right, you should! You can’t cite a name for evidence of excellence! It’s against the rules! Yet, I did not press the attack, because the strange thing is, I knew exactly what she was talking about, and gave her the argument. She wasn’t citing Andy Dufresne as a name, as a paragon, as the perfect example of the protagonist in film. She was saying that the film meant something to her. Andy’s actions spoke to her being somehow. Perhaps, when Dufresne is standing in the cleansing storm after escaping prison, his arms outstretched toward the heavens, Beth can feel the rain, as well.
Other arguments inevitably followed, usually about everything that is pop culture, but most often we argued about films. It did not take me log to figure out that, in a perfect world, Beth would’ve replaced the late Gene Siskel. But then, Beth’s really not much of a critic when it comes to movies, despite her vast knowledge. She will discuss them, but only in the context of whether she likes them or not. When it comes to film, there is usually no deep and abiding reason why she likes what she likes. In fact, “Andy Dufresne” is perhaps the strongest statement she has ever uttered in support of a film. Now, she is quite capable of criticizing everything else: religion, hypocrisy (perhaps both together), politics, vapidity, vanity and various people. This criticism runs along similar lines as her takes on the movies, but it often possesses a bit more detail. She is also (normally) very adept at returning some of my jibes (though, really, too kind to return all of them), and (in my mind) she seems to have great depth of character, despite her less than analytical arguments (“Andy Dufresne” notwithstanding).
This is where the problem lies. Beth, now 24, doesn’t see her character the way I do. That same semi-critical eye, when turned toward herself and her dynamics, becomes a most efficient mechanism. It roots out her faults, and maintains its energy like those self-sustaining, leaf-eating robots that science is just now starting to produce. After the robot has done its job, she is pretty sure she is worthless, among other things. Unable to see past the package to the present within, she is left with an overweight, plain young woman with brown hair, a too-large head, a too-small chest, flabby thighs, chicken leags, and a singular, piercing laugh (a cackle, actually).
