My first Best Friend

My very first best friend was Chip Sutton. How we became friends somehow escapes me fifty years later. The first thing I remember about him was his laugh. He laughed explosively, with a hoarse cough. I remember thinking it must hurt to laugh like that. Like having a whooping cough, but it came with such a delightful appreciation of anything I did that was funny.

That was me. I was funny. I was the funny friend. I could make him laugh. When we hung out, that was a big part of the fun. I’d do funny voices and sound effects and we’d hack around. (In the late 60’s that was the term for doing nothing in particular – hacking around.) I spent a lot of time after school over at his house in an upscale neighborhood not far from school. His parents were my ideal of what parents were supposed to be. Father Clem (Clement Evans Sutton Jr. – Chip was Clement Evans III but always preferred Chip. Wouldn’t you?) was a southern gentleman; reserved, kind and tolerant. Chip’s Mom was a mother who could’ve had a TV show in the style of Donna Reed, Southern style, and Chip’s sister Betsy was sweet, fun and pretty; a few years younger, she idolized her brother.

I became a fixture at the Sutton home. I slept over a lot and was welcomed by the whole family. Meals were a bit tricky for me, for the family was religious. Before meals we’d have to hold hands and give thanks, listening to the blessing given by Mr. Sutton or sometimes Chip. The honor was given on a rotating basis.

Now being a cynical Jew raised by hypocritical parents, put me in an odd situation in this regard. My parents were first generation Brooklyn Jews and wanted me to have a bar-mitzvah in an orthodox synagogue, which meant I had to go to Hebrew school three days a week after school. Hebrew school was done in a low-rent area of Schenectady. My teachers were definitely old world Jews from Germany, Russia and Eastern Europe, and most likely survived the holocaust or had searing memories of that period before I was born. Mr. Friend was my cultural history teacher. He made the Old Testament stories come alive for me and made me proud of my Jewish heritage. He hated Jesus Christ and never referred to him by name. “JC” was how Mr. Friend referred to the false messiah.

When you are ten, eleven and twelve years old, this makes an impression. Religious indoctrination is a strong ingredient of anyone’s youth. And had I been more inclined to accept Judaism, by example of my parents, I may have never looked into the life of JC, my best friend’s savior, read Siddhartha or studied religion as an outsider.

Here is a good example of why I am not religious:
I attended an orthodox synagogue, Temple Beth Israel. Shabbos (The Sabbath) is days of rest for observant Jews and they do not use machines of any kind. This meant I had to walk to shul. My mother worried it was too far and, not wanting to tax me too much, would drive me to within three blocks of the synagogue and tell me to get out and walk the rest of the way, like the other Jews. This was a great thing for me to see at twelve and set me on the path of skepticism.

So, I would walk to shul and attended services. Boring! Old men in heavy full tallises (prayer shawls for you non-Jews) would look like shrouded bobbins dovening in the front rows. The pews were wood and had Siddurs (prayer books) one side Hebrew, the other English. The women sat in the balconies and the side areas while the men sat in the main room. It was all very traditional. I remember the Rabbi would give his sermon in English, but pray and sing in Hebrew and I can’t for the life of me remember anything he ever mentioned that stayed with me. I was more interested in why the girls were separate from the boys and kidded around with some of my Hebrew school pals.

After shul, I would walk back to a prearranged spot and be picked up by my mother, who would drive me back home and make me delicious bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich with a malted milk on our Hamilton Beach mix-master with the steel cup. So rather than swallow the teachings of the Torah, I swallowed pork with milk and realized that I could not be an observant Jew. I gladly made peace with this bit of cognitive dissonance.

So back to the Sutton dinner table with me, Chip, Besty and Mr. and Mrs. Sutton all holding hands around the table and Mr. Sutton says “Chip, would you please say grace?”

I bow my head reverently. Chip begins, “Dear lord, we thank you for the blessings you bestow upon us. For this meal, for our family and our friends.” Chip squeezes my hand. “In Jesus’ name, we praise God from who all blessings flow. – Amen.”

I’m glad that’s over, I think to myself and we begin the meal. Chip passes me the roast potatoes on a plate. I make a sharp stab at one with my fork, thinking that I’ll plunge it into a nice, soft cooked potato. I did not realize that these were crisped and fried Southern style and my fork glanced off the hard shell, scattering potatoes all over the table and the floor. I was crimson with embarrassment. Chip let out a hoarse whooping cough laugh and helped me salvage the potatoes on the table and picked up the ones from the floor and took them into the kitchen. He barked his laugh all the way in.

Chip was a very talented artist and he drew cartoons. His panels would be about him and his sister, or him as a super-hero (I’m not sure I’m remembering this properly, but it’s what comes to mind as I write this, anyway.) He also could draw a mean Popeye and Brutus and Olive Oyl and I was in awe of his artistic talent.  We loved Get Smart, James Bond and The Man from U.N.C.L.E. Chip was a shutterbug. He loved taking pictures, so I got a camera and did some photography too. We took Kodachrome slides and black and white film and got them developed at the local Woolworth’s. We made up stories like “Secret Agent Alfred State”. I was Alfred State. Why? Because my sister went to Alfred State University and I had an Alfred State T-shirt.

We shot photos of us jumping and doing odd, silly things and then, when the photos came back as slides, we’d sit and make up a story based on the images, and project them in the carousel projector.
I was so glad to have a friend like Chip. One day, having slept over, I’m walking down the stairs and bump into Mr. Sutton, who was getting ready to head to the office. He took a look at me on the staircase as he stood by the open front door and said “Tuck in your shirttails, Gary, that’s disgusting.” In his great Georgia accent, which came out “Tuck in ye-ah shoittails, Gary, that’s dizz-gustin’.” Rather than be embarrassed or feel chastised, I suddenly felt elated. Mr. Sutton, a father-figure, took the time to look at me and make a correction for my own good.

My father (whom I look on fondly now as a tragic figure, valiantly struggling with a harridan of a wife and severe bi-polar disorder) never did anything like that. He’d criticize or ignore me in his more docile state and hit me in his manic states. The Suttons were my refuge. I stayed away from home as long as I could, without wearing out my welcome.

So it happened one Friday afternoon after school in the library that I confessed to Chip how the police had to come and break up another of my parent’s fights. I always spoke matter-of-factly, keeping the drama out of it, reporting as if I was talking about some other kid. Chip knew my situation mostly, though we never really talked about it. I hated being pitied, by anyone other than myself.
So as I went on and told him how depressed I was, he took me by the shoulder and looked me in the eye.

“Gary. I can help you. You have to let Jesus into your life.”
JC? I think. “Yeah, right.” I say derisively.
“No, I mean it. He can save you. He wants you to be happy.”
“I want to be happy too.” I say.
“You have to open your heart to Jesus and accept him and it’ll happen. I promise you.”
I see how earnest Chip is and try my best not to make some wise-crack. “I wish I could, Chip, but I can’t.”
“You told me yourself, you’re not really a Jew.” he says.
“Yeah. So?”
“So bring Jesus into your heart and you’ll be re-born.”
I can’t resist. “Sorry, once was enough.” I say.
“I’m serious, Gary. You have to.” Chip says, handing me a pamphlet. It’s an illustrated story of how Jesus Christ can enter your life and give you salvation. I take it and go and sit down in one of the aisles of books and go through it. The pictures are simple and Jesus is the typical image of a kind savior. I leaf through and it reads something like, Give yourself to God. Give Him everything you are, everything you hope to be, all your dreams, visions, hopes and desires. Make everything His, and He will demonstrate His power through your life.”

On the last page is the contract; an actual contract, promising to give your life to Jesus Christ.
I, NAME HERE promise to give my life to my lord and savior Jesus Christ in return for salvation and everlasting life in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.

“I’ll have to have my lawyer look this over. I’m not going to sign anything without his approval.” I say.
This obviously stings and Chip’s eyes fill with tears. “I love you, Gary and you need to accept Christ. I want you to be happy and this is the way, you have to believe me.”
I begin to cry. I see how I’ve hurt him, but I can’t bring myself to play into this ridiculous thing. A contract with JC? You have got to be kidding. I explain to him in all seriousness, even if I sign this, I don’t believe it and I’d be mocking his religion even more. “Please, don’t make me.” I begin to cry.
We both are sobbing now: Me for my wretched depression, self-pity and fear of losing my only friend. Chip, for whatever reason, I can’t know other than he’s truly heartbroken at not being able to bring his best friend to Christ.
After a while, we wipe our faces and walk solemnly out of the library into the parking lot, where we part. I walk slowly home and so does he. It is not the end of our friendship by any means, and though it is a wall that will never come down between us, we love each other to this very day, even though our lives are lived at opposite ends of the continent and we haven’t seen each other in decades.

The greatest blessing of my life is that I have several life-long best friends. Chip, Skip, Caleb, Mike and Stan, and they, for me are my salvation. God bless friendship.