It started with a fart. Yep, that’s when I knew he was my best friend. I could fart as loud as I wanted to and there was no judging, no finger pointing, just the lingering smell slowly resonating from the room.
I don’t consider myself the "friendship" type. I’m not the ringleader; I’m not the one gathering the girls for the "Sex in the City" party; I’m not the one with my hand in all of my friends’ problems. I’m more of an outsider, usually associating friendship with my environment — work. A product, some say, of "the only child syndrome."
But this person allowed me to be myself with no hidden agendas and it has continued to define our friendship for the past seven years. To this day, I can say whatever I want; do whatever I want with no strings attached — and believe me, I come with a lot of strings.
We met in 1997 while waiting tables at a New Orleans restaurant. I was an aspiring writer; he a struggling musician — both determined to reach our goals. Our determination was not only what brought us together, but also it was what almost drove us apart.
I had big plans. I was going to move to New York and become an editor at a magazine. No one was going to get in my way, not even Stewart. Stewart and I had always had different outlooks on life, and knew our friendship wouldn’t last. How could it? I wasn’t staying in New Orleans forever. For three years, our friendship tiptoed around me moving. We went about our daily routines, growing and evolving together. We spent every waking moment together, discovering each other’s idiosyncrasies. We would watch movies, get coffee and go to dinner. We knew each other so well that we knew what each other was going to say and could mimic each other’s expressions at the drop of a hat. We could be free. I could burst into my goofy rendition of the Rerun (from "What’s Happening") dance at any given moment; he could perform the robot.
But I grew restless. New York was calling and I had to go. I wanted him to come with me, but he refused. Yet he was supportive. He was a cheerleader in my corner, rooting me on to follow my dreams.
As I embarked on my journey, he bid me farewell. I hugged him goodbye as tears ran down my face. It was the end of our era. No more coffee dates; no more late night chats. We were on our own again.
As I sat in my studio apartment on the Upper East Side, becoming a New York editor didn’t seem to matter anymore. How could it if I didn’t have anyone to share it with, least of all someone who I could fart around?
I knew the Big Apple would always be there; Stewart wouldn’t.
That was three years ago. And I now realize that at that moment, Stewart was being the best friend that he could be, stepping aside to allow me to follow my dreams. Through it all, he put his feelings on the back burner to support me. And it is because of him that I know the true meaning of a best friend.
I thank my lucky stars every day that I went to New York. Though we’ve never been there together, it has become our city because it made us fall in love — the place where I discovered my best friend, who recently became my husband.