I was surprised to read the email. Although he was my college roommate, I hadn’t heard from Chad in some 20 years. From mutual friends, now and then, I learned he had become an actuary, gotten married, yada yada. You know how it goes, once the routine starts, it develops a life of its own. Nevertheless, it never sounded like the Chad I knew. I suppose it had to be that way; the path he used to be on could only lead to death, addiction, or a long imprisonment. I hoped he wouldn’t bore me with some maudlin conversion story, or worse, try to sell me an insurance policy.

I became an entomologist, specializing in entomophagy. I got a good gig at a state university in the South. The place revolved around football. Not much for high culture, but it my case, that did not extend much beyond the Grateful Dead and Netflix comedies anyway. I was compensated with many international trips; that was plenty of culture. As a gag gift one birthday, my wife gave me a poster that read, “It’s the little things that count,” which I hung on the wall behind my desk. Hmm … I assume she meant my professional interests. She’s been a great companion all these years even though she never learned how to prepare my bug recipes.

I met up with Chad at the cigar bar he suggested, since we both happened to be in Boston at the same time. He was smoking a fake Cohiba and a glass of scotch straight up. I opted for a glass of red wine. The odd thing about catching up with an old buddy is that the years don’t count. It’s as though you just saw him last Tuesday and there is no awkwardness. You assume he has been the same person during the long gap, and any changes are no more than the superficial ripples on a much deeper pond.

We did the long time no see greeting and began to relax. I asked about his family. He hesitated, but then answered, “My wife ran off with a professional drag car racer two years ago.”
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