Falling down the stairs
Someone once told me you never know who your friends are until you’re falling down the stairs together. Good image.
I like to think I’m pretty good at being there for people who need help. Maybe I’m fooling myself. I suppose if you asked anybody, including your own self that question, I mean, who wouldn’t puff up? But when the shit hits the fan, how many make the grade? Risk getting sued? Risk arrest? Risk getting your ass kicked? I mean, really. Look around. Who love’s ya, baby?
Sometimes its just a regular Joe or Jane. Someone who hadn’t given that question a second thought in their lives. Someone who’s never been out of the city, out from behind the counter or their computer. Then, click!, they’re Johnny on the spot. You just never know.
And sometimes there’s the big mouth over there, cowering in a corner, making excuses–perfectly plausible, very understandable, totally lame.
I hate to say it, and I never wish it, but the truth is, in my mind, a person’s true character is on full display the minute things go sour. They’re the ones I want to work with. They’re the ones I want rowing their asses off to drag mine out of the drink when I flip. They’re the ones I want as my friends. And I can only hope I’m the one they want, too.
