Midwinter, pt. 3

My Kenyan friend has agreed to reduce her generosity to just two meals each week.

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Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday were warm days. At first everything was foggy: steam was rising up from the leftover snow. I exercised in shorts. Later it rained. Walking home from work, I saw that the river had flooded over parts of the East Bank Trail.

Since Thursday it’s been cold, cold.

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At IUSB the custom is to avoid proclaiming one’s religion. And so my department’s secretary — a jolly, John Goodmanesque, ex-naval man; a motorcyclist with all the paraphernalia — keeps his faith low-key.

One day when I must’ve looked lousy, he said, “I’ll be sending positive vibes your way.” I thanked him. Lately he’s grown bolder. When I’ve come into the office and flipped the switch, he’s said, “Let there be light.”

Like many other Christians, he’s offered to drive me home. (He shudders at the weather.) Once, during a downpour, I accepted; but I hated to, despite his kindness.

I like to ride with those whom I particularly enjoy — for the sake of being near to them, not for the sake of free-riding, of doing what’s easy. What I’m discovering in South Bend is that the burden of friendship falls unequally because I never drive. (In Ithaca this wasn’t an issue, for I seldom rode with friends.) I never will defeat this culture. I never will convince the world to walk. The result of my stubbornness is that I’m a bad friend.

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Kenny drives me when I can stand to ask him to do that. On the other hand, Kenny and I just finished watching Peep Show, and lately we’ve been watching Downton Abbey, and I pay for the Netflix subscription.