The deep end

It’s always worse when it happens to someone you know.

As if 70 million fellow Americans who still think a nazi-lovin’, race-baitin’, woman-hatin’, name-callin’, orange face-paintin’, con-runnin’, daughter-lustin’, rumor-spreadin', handicapped-mockin’, TV-watchin’, conspiracy theory-spoutin’, covid-ignorin’, dictator-lovin’, baby-handed traitor should be the leader of the free world weren’t enough, come to find out one of them happens to be a friend of mine.

Someone I’ve worked with.

Someone I’ve worked for.

Someone I respect. Strike that. Respected.

I’ve known him almost nine years and in that time we’ve had meals together, fought for great work together and had My Dinner With Andre-esque conversations about things that matter. Although we didn’t get together often, when we did we’d enjoy each other’s company immensely.

One of the things I always liked about him was he never took anything at face value. He always made it a point to take the deep dive, looking into the rest of the story to find out where the truth lived. But going by his Facebook feed the last few months, the truth is just a distant memory. And his deep-diving, fact-finding days are long gone.

The only diving he’s doing now is off the deep end into the cold, cruel, dirty water on the edge of town in Trumpland. I don’t’ even recognize him.

His FB feed is filled with conspiracy theories about the virus (It’s a hoax! The death rate is less than the flu!) and memes about how awful Democrats are, that of course are blatant projections of all the corruption and criminal activity going on in the GOP from the top down. There's no shortage of ramblings about how they're taking away our freedom asking us to wear masks, and a lot of "Mommy I don't wanna! I don't wanna!". And of course, the obligatory "alternative facts" charts showing the crisis isn't as bad as it's being made out to be.

Most surprising are the undisguised racial slur memes against the Vice-President elect. It would all be worth serious discussion if the posts, as crass and ugly as some of them are, were from reliable sources. The ones I've seen are from Breibart, Fox state news, OAN and other extreme right outlets. Apparently serious discussion isn't what he's looking for.

I'll be the first to admit I post quotes, memes and articles that are anti-Trump and anti-Republican. But they're based in fact, sourced reliably, factually accurate and often quite hystically funny, even when they're snarky—which they often are. You're welcome.

He's also posted responses to the many comments he gets about how off base and crazy he is, and his replies usually boil down to "..if we're really friends we can disagree like adults." Well, maybe on some subjects, but not when things like racism and cruelty aren't dealbreakers for him.

So I'm grieving. I'm sad for who he's become, and the friend I've lost. I've never engaged with him on Facebook because he's clearly too far dug in. And by dug in I mean gone. Besides, I've never liked FB fights.

I'll always be a friend to the person he was. I just can't be one to the person he is.

Goodbye Paula

I got a phone call this week I'd been expected for a long time. My friend Paula passed away.

I've written about her twice on this blog, both times about my visits with her at the Alzheimer's facility where she was during her final years (those posts are here and here).

My friends Alison and Michael both called to tell me she'd died. It's funny how sometimes when you see the name on the caller ID you know exactly what the call is going to be.

Timing is everything. In the last couple of weeks, I'd been telling my wife I really needed to go visit Paula. I knew it had been a while, but until I saw the date on those last posts I wrote about her, I didn't realize exactly how long. I'm sorry to say I never made it back to see her.

I wrote in more detail in those other posts about her, so I won't go into too much length about her here. Suffice it to say she was an extraordinary person, one of the best account people I'll ever work with, an unrelenting encourager and a great, great friend.

Sadly I don't have a picture of Paula, but what I do have is every great memory of her in my heart. Having seen her in her advanced stages of Alzheimer's, I can honestly say I'm happy she's been set free, fully restored and at long last reunited with her husband.

I love you Paula. Thank you for being the friend you were. Rest in peace.

More power to me

There are a lot of powers I'd like to have.

I'd like to be able to fly like Superman. It'd get me where I need to go a lot faster, I wouldn't have to deal with those pesky TSA people, and I look absolutely fabulous in a cape.

Or so I've been told.

Invisibility would also be a good one, being able to move through the world unnoticed (of course I could accomplish the same thing by having a show on NBC), slipping into places unseen by anyone. This is definitely a power I would've put to much better use in high school. Now I think I'd use it mostly to get around taking out the trash and unloading the dishwasher. "Where's dad? He was here a minute ago."

Telekinesis is a favorite. I'd love to be able to have a driver flip me off on the freeway, then be able to flip them off the road by sending their car over the side rail just by thinking about it. Seems fair.

Sadly, I don't have any of those powers. The one I will have shortly is one I hope I never have to use. Power of attorney over my son's health and affairs.

As you might know, young Mr. Spielberg is going to one of the finest film schools in the country. That's the good news. The bad news, besides the tuition, is it's not in the same state as I am. So just like my weight, taxes and where my next gig is coming from, I file this power under things I don't want to think about but have to.

My boy will be a two and a half hour flight away, and that's provided the planes are leaving when I need to go. God forbid if something should happen where he's unable to make decisions for himself, either myself or my wife are going to have to make them for him. No parent ever wants to think about this. But the only thing worse than it actually occurring is not being able to do anything about it. I asked him to grant my wife and I power of attorney, and he'll have to sign documents giving it to us. As I was stumbling around trying to explain it to him, he took the opportunity to explain it to me: "It's like a fire extinguisher. You never want to use it, but it's good to have around if you need it."

Clearly he's already much more mature than I ever was at his age. Or even my age.

I'm taking this as a learning opportunity for both of us. I get to teach him to read this document - all documents - carefully before he signs them. He gets to teach me he's a capable, grown man - something I sometimes have trouble remembering (and realizing).

I finally understand why parents treat you as kids no matter how old you get. He's always going to be my baby boy no matter what state he's in or how old he is.

The other thing the wife and I are forced to consider is that plane ride I was talking about. If events were moving fast, there's the very real possibility we wouldn't be able to reach him before decisions needed to get made.

Fortunately, I have a great friend named Cameron who lives in the city where he'll be. He's graciously offered to be my son's boots on the ground while we're not there, and not just for emergency situations but for homecooked meals, advice and anything else he needs as well. Cameron's included in the legal document as the alternate after the wife and I, so there won't be any question about his authority should it ever come to that. I'll never be able to convey how much of a relief it is knowing he's there for my son, or how thankful the wife and I are.

So tomorrow morning, we sit down with our lawyer and he'll sign the papers. And I'll try not to think about what they actually mean.

I guess that is one more power I have. The power of denial.

My pal Jayne

I know what you're thinking. Italian movie star? International fashionista? VP of Marketing for Ray-Ban? None of the above.

This is my beautiful friend Jayne.

I've known Jayne ever since junior high school, but we've only been friends for the last two or three years. I know what you're saying: how could you have possibly known her that long and yet only been friends for such a short time?

Easy. I thought she hated me.

Jayne and I ran around in different groups in high school. But high school being what it is, there was some cross-pollination of the people in those groups and we knew of each other. In fact sometimes I'd actually be right there in a group with her, but we never spoke.

I thought she hated me.

Fast forward to one of our high school reunions. I don't remember who spoke to who first, but we wound up talking a little bit. Then we became Facebook friends. Jayne would often make funny, sarcastic and intelligent comments on things I posted. And as you may or may not know, I'm a sucker for attention, and a pushover for funny, sarcastic and intelligent people I think hate me.

So Jayne and I wound up having lunch and catching up. Here's the first thing I said to her: "I always thought you hated me."

Much to my relief it wasn't the case. Come to find out Jayne was painfully shy, and had a tough time talking to new people, even though technically I was a long way from new.

Anyway, we talked about our lives, our spouses, our jobs, the fact neither of us had aged a day (true fact) and a certain friend who always posts in all caps (seriously, you just have to press one key).

I'm happy to say we really are friends now. We speak often, mostly online. Her wit, wisdom and sarcasm are on serious par with mine (I know what you're thinking - what wisdom?). If I ever write a book (I'll wait until the laughter dies down), I'm pretty sure Jayne will be my go to editor to read it, be brutally honest, ask me what the hell I was thinking and then make it better.

But since I won't have a book finished anytime soon, I hope we manage to speak in person before the next reunion. When we do, I know there's at least one question I won't have to ask.

Anger management

It's hard to know exactly what makes people angry. It's different for everyone. But I have one friend in particular who, because I've known him so well for so long, I know exactly what trips his trigger.

Everything.

It must be a tough place to be. For as long as I've known him, he's been the angriest person I've ever known. It never ends. His rage is like bottomless glasses of lemonade at Islands.

You'd think some ambitious young turk out of Anger University, ready to be royally pissed off at the world, would come along and steal the title. But year after year, he manages to hold on to it as if it were a point of pride.

I've seen the toll it takes on him. I know it takes a toll on those around him. I've offered many times in the past to help him in various ways, but he's never accepted. And I've been at this point for awhile where, in a life that gets more and more demanding, I simply don't have room or desire to be witness and occasional target of his anger and nastiness any longer. It's a negative drain and it's exhausting. And life really is too short.

I'm not sure exactly when it was, but somewhere along the line I asked myself what I was getting out of the friendship at this point. When I couldn't think of anything, I knew it was time to cut ties.

I used to feel bad about it, but I don't any more.

Clearly running his blood pressure up forty points every five minutes at some perceived slight would indicate his survival instincts aren't kicking in. But mine are.

When I used to read his rants about the tiniest, most insignificant things that would normally be a surface nuisance at best, but for some reason set him off completely beyond the pale, it just made me sad.

This is a smart, talented guy in so many ways. He'd be better off showing that side of himself to the world instead of the Mr. Fury side on display at the drop of a hat ("Why the f&%# are you dropping that hat!?")

He's reached out to me a few times with bizarre, sad messages that don't deserve a response. They're anger (and alcohol) fueled, and I'm not taking the bait.

I sincerely wish him well. Maybe somewhere down the road we'll reconnect.

But it sure as hell won't be until he realizes he has a lot less to be angry about than he thinks.

Close to home

I'd much prefer this were one of my usual sarcastic, snarky posts with a snappy end line. We'd all have a good laugh, then get on with our day.

Sadly, not this time out.

Last week, a school friend of my son's committed suicide. He was only four months older. They were in a rock band together for awhile.

This young man had been somewhat of an outsider. He wound up leaving my son's school and going to a performing arts school three and a half years ago for various reasons, one of which is he was an extremely talented musician. Everyone at school, his bandmates as well as several professional musicians respected and envied what he could do on the guitar. His guitar teacher called him the next Jimmi Page or Joe Satriani.

It was a road filled with promise and wide open to him.

When we got the call and told our kids, they were both understandably in shock, as were we. My son said it's the first person he's known who's ever killed himself. I hope he never knows any others. He asked me if I've ever known anyone who's taken their own life. I've known two - a creative director and an actress. But I only knew them in passing, and would never say I was close to them (which of course doesn't make it any less tragic).

My wife and son went to the funeral last week. And while this is the part where normally I'd crack wise about putting the fun back in funeral, there's nothing funny about it. According to my boy, it was extraordinarily sad. Both the funeral and the reception were uncomfortably silent. You couldn't mention what had happened, and you couldn't not, so no one said anything. It was a silence you could feel.

I can only imagine that in the aftermath his parents pain is more than anyone should have to bear. The details don't matter. What's important is a talented young man, who's life had barely gotten started, was in so much pain he thought taking his own life was the only way to make it stop.

I don't have any wisdom or insight here. All I have are the truisms we all recite by rote and take for granted, until something like this happens.

Pay attention. Watch for signs. Love and hug your kids. Let them know the lines of communication are open whenever they want to talk. Make sure they understand no subject is off the table.

And let them know as unfair as it is, they'll have to live with the fact that sometimes there's no answer for why.

Remembering Gary

Gary May first came into our lives to solve a problem.

The people who sold us our house were, shall we say, not exactly forthcoming about a few things that were wrong with it. One of which was the ongoing water damage in the back room.

Apparently our yard sloped down towards the house - as did the patio towards the patio door. When it rained or was watered for any period of time, the back room soaked in all the water. The rest of the water came in under the patio door. And because the back room had been added on years ago, it was on a cement slab foundation. If the cracks in the corners of the windows hadn't been painted over, we would've known immediately that the water was undermining the foundation. It was a disaster waiting to happen.

We went to arbitration against the sellers, and won ten thousand dollars from them to make the needed repairs. The only thing we had to figure out was what we were going to do, and who we'd get to do it.

Our neighbors across the street were having their driveway redone, so we sauntered over and asked their contractor if he wouldn't mind coming by and seeing what he thought could be done to solve the problem.

That contractor was Gary May.

It was the first of many times over the years we'd have Gary solve problems around the house for us.

Gary wasn't just a masonry guy. He was an artist disguised as a masonry guy. I used to love watching and listening to him and my wife collaborate on a vision for whatever project he was working on. This big, booming, gentle giant of a man, discussing what would look right. What would feel right for us and the property.

There were times when we'd ask Gary what he was going to do, and he just said, "I'll figure something out. You'll like it." He always did. And we always did.

With Gary, it was easy to say the three most dangerous words you can say to a contractor: "While you're here..." Because it was so easy to trust and love the work Gary did, we just always wanted him to do more. And if it meant we had to wait because his schedule was busy, then we waited.

Gary became family over the years. He came with his granddaughter to my daughter's birthday parties. He'd stop by to show off the work he'd done on our house to potential clients because he was so proud of it. Even when he wasn't there, he was. Whenever an issue would come up we'd always say, "Let's talk to Gary about it.

Gary was there from the time my children were born. He watched them grow up, and would always ask about them and comment about what great people they were becoming.

And as much as it pains me, I'm just going to say it: Gary was my dog's favorite person on the planet. Gary had known Max since he was a puppy and loved him just as long. And it was mutual. Max would virtually come out of his skin, barking, jumping, tail wagging at a 100 miles an hour the minute he heard Gary's van coming up the street.

Gary would ask, "Why is he like this when I'm here?"

The same reason we all were excited to see him. He loved him.

The running joke in our house about Gary was that almost no matter what work he was doing, the price was $3200. Didn't matter if it was outside, inside, front yard, side yard, back yard, $3200 just was what it always worked out to.

Gary was also a man of faith. He'd been through a lot in his life. He'd lost a lot of family. He'd gotten into trouble with drugs, and was clean and in NA for 44 years. He lived his life as an example to others of what was possible. Which was everything. Because to anyone who knew him, there was nothing he couldn't accomplish.

When we re-landscaped our backyard, my wife wanted these cement squares with aggregate - the crushed, colored glass and gravel you see in it. Gary sent her to a store that sold the glass, and she picked out exactly what she wanted. He custom made the squares, and included the one heart-shaped piece of glass my wife wanted to be prominent.

We call it Gary's heart, even though it's far too small.

When his wife called and told us of his passing, it was as if a giant had fallen.

I guess that is what happened.

Whenever Gary would be working at the house and I had to go to work, he'd always say, "See you later Jeff. Write something great today."

His wife Cindy said that Gary's with God now, probably making him a giant cement column. I have no doubt that's true.

And I know exactly how much he's charging him.

Failing the test

I love my mom. I love my dad. I think sons are the best thing ever. I think daughters are the best thing ever. I think cancer sucks. I'm a great friend. I support the walk. I think dogs have many better qualities than most humans. I think it's a good idea to donate blood.

But I also think I don't have to prove it to you.

Of all the annoying posts on Facebook - and there is no shortage of them - the ones that make me wish my eyes could roll further back are the ones asking me to re-post if I agree.

They're under the guise of a good cause, but the last line is always something aggressively patronizing and challenging like "I know many of my friends won't repost this, but I want to see who will...."

Screw you. Re-post if you agree.

Life is demanding enough without having to prove to you I agree with your cause. And if you think I don't agree with it because I'm not posting, I'm more than fine with that. I've lived through worse.

Plus if you feel you have to "test" me to see if I'll do what you want me to, we're probably not as close friends as you think we are.

Sorry, but you'll just have to trust that I'm a good person, and as a rule love my family and don't wish crippling diseases on anybody.

Besides, if you'd stop testing me to see if I'll re-post, you'd have more time to post things that are actually meaningful.

Like that sunset shot. Or what you had for breakfast.

Remembering George

I just got back from a memorial service for my great friend George Roux, who died a little over a week ago. Having known George for almost thirty years, I have a lot of history and stories to tell.

Now sometimes at services like these, they open it up and ask whoever would like to say a few words about the dearly departed to come up to the podium. And there have been times when I've wanted to say something, but truthfully I'm not at my best off the cuff with emotions spilling over, and loud sobbing as background noise.

Plus, being a writer, I like to map out what I'm going to say.

So when I heard about George, my Boy Scout instincts about being prepared kicked into merit-badge readiness. I wrote down what I wanted to say, rehearsed it and was ready for the call.

Come to find out, the call never came. George's service was beautifully planned by his wife Julie, was beyond lovely and went off like clockwork - something you can't do if you just invite people to speak willy-nilly.

Anyway, had I gotten the call, this is what I would've said:

I think the thing that surprised me most is that George’s heart failed him. Surprising because it never failed any of us.

George and I met almost 30 years ago. Being in advertising, of course I’d heard of him, how talented he was, the classes he taught at Art Center and Ad Center. For a while there it seemed like you couldn’t throw a rock without hitting someone who was mentored by George.

George and I were first partnered as a team when we worked at Tracy Locke. And let me say, work was never easier or more fun. Great ideas flowed out of George fast and furious. Besides being an incredibly talented art director, George was a great writer.

And trust me, copywriters don’t love anything more than an art director who knows how to write.

Maybe it wasn’t so much that we worked together, but that I got to watch him work. I would’ve paid for the privilege.

George and I became great and lasting friends. We were also co-conspirators. At Tracy Locke, we came up with a plan to pitch the Yamaha Electronics business by personally delivering the VP of Marketing an invitation to come to the agency. It was during the Consumer Electronics Show in Las Vegas. So we made a poster with a headline that read, “We came to your party. Now you're invited to ours.” We went to the show, found him, talked for a few minutes and gave him the poster, which he loved.

He never came to the agency, but George and I had three awesome days in Vegas.

I’m not saying that was the plan all along, But I'm not saying it wasn’t.

George and I also shared an appreciation for crappy horror films. Every time another one came out, we’d sit through it, then come out of the theater saying the same thing: “There’s two hours of my life I’ll never get back.” But we kept going, I think not so much for the films but to spend the time with each other.

George has been there for me at almost every pivotal point in my life. My dad’s death. Break ups, break downs. He was one of the groomsmen at my wedding, as well as self-appointed videographer, lending his incredible eye and talent to turning a wedding video into art. If only the DMV had known about him.

He was the first person I called when my son was born. At every juncture, George was there, offering his experience, insight, jokes, strength and friendship for me to lean on.

We freelanced as a team at several agencies over the years. I remember one conversation with him where I told him how jealous I was because he could do so many things so well: he was an art director, commercial director, illustrator, photographer. He had options. All I could do was write.

He looked at me and said, "That may be true, but nobody writes like you do."

I think he meant it as a compliment.

When George met Julie, he fell and fell hard. And while I’d seen him in relationships before, it was clear he’d just been biding his time. This was the one he’d been waiting for. Julie brought a joy to George’s life all of us who loved him will be forever grateful for.

We used to spend a lot of time together, but as often happens, life overtakes intentions and in the past few years we haven’t seen each other nearly often enough. The last time I talked to George was on his birthday in July. We had a long conversation, checking in with each other and catching up on our lives and families.

I called him on his birthday, he called me on mine. So while the call this year may be long distance, I’m pretty sure one way or another I’ll hear from him. I know he’ll hear from me.

It’s hard to get almost 30 years of a friendship into a few minutes, or to find exactly the right words to tell you about all the experiences George and I had.

It’d be a lot easier if he were here. Not only would he tell the stories better, he’d have pictures to go with them.

When Julie told me the news, we talked about George and how one reason this is so shocking is that he seemed indestructible. He’d been through a bad car accident, by-pass surgery, a home invasion robbery. All of them were like bullets off Superman. Julie also said she knew he’d had an entire life before he met her, and that she knew what she’d signed up for when she married him.

But Julie, I’m here to tell you, he also had an entire life after he met you. A complete life. The one he wanted. The one he was looking for. The one that counted. The one he found with you.

I’d also like to say something to Rachel and George. Your father was an exceptional man, and he loved you both beyond measure. I’m sure you know that. I’m also sure he’d want you to know this: life will be challenging sometimes. It’ll make you angry. It’ll make you weary. There’ll be times you’ll stumble and fall. But in those times, when you don’t know if you can get up or go on, remember, in your hearts, your dad will forever be smiling down, sending his love and cheering you on.

Let me wrap it up by saying words I’d have much preferred to say to him in person.

George, thank you for your kindness, your friendship, your brilliance, your humor, your heart, your decency, your encouragement, your work, your talent, your downright brutal good looks, and your love.

I’ll miss you friend. Before you know it. Love you George.

Facebook feud

I think if I'm going to be honest with myself - which so rarely pays off - I have to admit that the thrill of Facebook has been gone for some time. I still have my account, but mainly as a way of linking my fabulous, intelligent, discerning and loyal readers to this blog.

Don't get me wrong: sometimes, when the mood strikes, there's just no substitute for knowing what my friends had for breakfast, how they're feeling, what they're watching, who they're with, the latest new age quote they like, seeing pictures of their dog (cat, parrot, fish, etc.), reading which team they like/don't like, linking to their blogs, reading what they think of the weather and seeing that video clip from YouTube that's been posted to my wall ten times because, let's face it, my friends have the same sense of humor as I do.

But lately the mood for all that isn't striking very often. And after the Facebook experience I had over the weekend, I imagine it will strike a lot less.

Like most people on FB, I have different circles of "friends." There's the inner circle, the next to the inner circle, whatever the next circle is and then the one after that.

Then on the very last ring, way out on the periphery, are the acquaintances. People I've met once or twice, and in a casual trying-to-be-nice way, either invited or accepted their invitation to be friends. They're not the problem. The problem is they have friends I've never met who occasionally like to chime in on one of my comments.

One of these outer ring people, a very nice person I met once, decided to post this poster on her wall. I had an issue with the use of Steve Jobs image, and the implication of his responsibility for the starving and famine-stricken children in Africa. It didn't seem fair or accurate and I said so.

A friend of my acquaintance took strong exception to what I was saying, and we proceeded to get into a fierce, fiery, name-calling back and forth on her wall about it. During the course of the "discussion", this person made the point that she had a doctorate from Johns Hopkins and was a world history teacher.

Both impressive accomplishments. But she was still wrong.

Yet late into the evening she was still writing columns about why she disagreed. I admit for a good part of the day I couldn't wait to look on FB and see what babbling rant she'd posted so I could reply. I got sucked into the ramblings of a crazy person I didn't know.

With a doctorate from Johns Hopkins.

After she started calling me a sexist because I disagreed with her, it really became clear to me what I was dealing with. I'd given more than enough effort and time I'll never get back to this person. I decided it was time to stop the insanity. I said, "Wow, you're an angry elf. I wish you nothing but the best." Then for good measure, I blocked her on my FB account, and unfriended my acquaintance.

Sell crazy someplace else, we're all stocked up here.

So while I'm not done with FB entirely, I am done with getting so carried away I waste most of a weekend day waiting to respond to someone I don't know and couldn't care less what they think about the Steve Jobs poster or anything else.

I know she learned a lot at Johns Hopkins, because she told me she did. But apparently they don't teach the one bit of wisdom and advice that could've helped her avoid sounding like a raging lunatic to a complete stranger.

Shatner said it best in that famous Saturday Night Live sketch:

Get a life.

The List

Here's the thing about upper management.

The guys at the top do not go down with the ship. They push people off so they can continue sailing.

They inspire a false sense of trust through breezy conversation and carefully parsed out praise. They conspire with you by whispering a risque joke, and sharing what appears to be a confidence but in reality isn't. When there's a grievance, they take you in their office, close the door, give you a well-practiced sympathetic and understanding look as they tell you how they feel your pain. Then they assure you that "if I could do something about it, I would."

Here's the lesson: despite carefully constructed appearances to the contrary, they're not your friend. But they act like it, as long as you're cost effective and the challenging comments you make or errors and stupid decisions you point out don't reflect directly on them.

As long as that's the case, then your position isn't on The List.

At this point you might be wondering what's triggered this line of thought. Don't worry, I haven't been fired (you need a real job for that to happen). Actually, someone I used to work for happened to cross my mind. Someone I believed to be my friend.

Admittedly it's a line that's easily blurred for me.

You'd think for as many times as I've seen The Godfather, I'd know by now - it's not personal, it's business. The thing is, because of the masquerade, it feels personal.

Here's the funny part: I still like this individual. Even though when given the choice, they wound up putting my name on The List. Which is the very reason I believe they're not my friend. See the conflict?

I hope this person is happy, and not in the "I hope you're happy now" sense. I mean it.

While I'm sure I'm giving this person much more brain time than they've given me since I left - or maybe even than when I was there for that matter - I can't help but feel a profound sadness that this was a person I thought was my friend, and who I counted on to have my back.

Turns out they did. Just not in the way I thought.