For two years in the mid-90’s, I shared an apartment with Gregg, one of my best friends whom I’ve kept around since the first grade. He’s a brilliant, reliable, compassionate, trustworthy man with numerous skills and abilities to his name. That said, he somehow made it all the way through adolescence and even early adulthood without ever having learned how to tie a necktie.

To be fair, he rarely found himself in situations that required the wearing of a tie. He was by no means required to wear one at work, so it was only at rare semi-formal social occasions – weddings, class reunions, funereal proceedings – that the subject ever even came up. A handful of such occasions occurred during the time that we lived together. Gregg would inevitably walk into whichever room I was in, wearing one of the five ties he owned hanging dead around his neck like a very thin scarf, or perhaps one of his beloved snakes.

“Dude,” he would say, and point at it.

“I showed you how to do it last time,” I would say, only half looking up from whatever I was reading, or watching on TV, or playing on Gregg’s Sega Genesis. “You should have paid attention then, dickbag.”

Then he would shuffle his feet and look at the clock on the wall a few times and tell me that he didn’t want to be late for whatever it was that he had to attend and could I please just help him. Eventually, in all cases, I would sigh and roll my eyes and break down and do it. Sometimes I would drag him into the bathroom and put him in front of the mirror and stand behind him and tie the thing around his neck, explaining each step in the Windsor knot-making process, in the hopes of teaching him how to fend for himself in this area, just as my father had taught me when I was maybe ten years old. After Gregg noted one time that our reflection resembled nothing so much as a Wham! video, I took to tying the tie around my own neck – again urging Gregg to observe and burn into long-term memory the steps involved – and then loosening the tie enough to pull the thing off of my neck and allow him to slip it over his head and tighten the knot.

This happened four or five times during our tenure as roommates. Then, in the fall of 1997, I moved out on my own, and his fiancée moved in. A few months later, Gregg called me in the middle of the afternoon at my place of business.

“Dude,” he said. “My aunt died.”

I immediately offered my condolences and asked him if he wanted to talk about it. He didn’t. They weren’t that close. His call had its roots in a far more utilitarian concern.

“Can you come over here and tie my tie for me?” he asked. “The service is in, like, an hour.”

Since I was at work, well over an hour away -- and incredulous that he was still making such a ridiculous request -- I told Gregg that I would not be able to help him this time.

“Can’t Grace do it?” I asked, wondering why he hadn’t sought help from his live-in fiancée in the first place.

“She’s from the Philippines, dude,” he said. “They don’t have ties there.”

I passed on arguing that particular point, wished my friend the best of luck, and went back to work.

About a week later, I ran into Gregg and asked him how he had resolved his little dilemma. Was Grace able to conjure up a Windsor knot after implementing internet research or a divining rod? Did Gregg attend the wake without a tie, Steve Martin style? Did he puss out and dash to Wal-Mart to buy a clip-on?

Gregg explained that he and Grace had headed out to the wake early, in the hopes that he could catch his father or brother in the parking lot of the funeral home and get one of them to help him out. For some reason, this plan was abandoned after a few minutes of sitting in the car, and Gregg and Grace wound up being the first guests to enter the funeral home and sign the guest book. The funeral director noticed that Gregg’s tie was lying limply around his neck, unsecured. A veteran of sorts, the director apparently was savvy enough to ask Gregg if he needed help with the tie. Gregg, of course, responded in the affirmative, grateful for the offer.

“I’m happy to help, son,” the funeral director said to him. He gestured toward a long wooden bench in the foyer. “If you could just lie down over here for me?”

Awesome.

That last line is really true? Great story Frank.

As with all of my True Stories™, each and every word is true, Jeff.

And thank you.

Very good! Wish I could offer some constructive criticism...but I don't see any problems.

LOL on that last line!

It's touching what roommates will do for each other....

I said this in chat, but just to make it public: Great story.

Wait, so he killed him?

It's like an E.C. horror comic come to life!

Nice, simple prose draws the reader in very nicely. I can really picture every bit of it in my head.

That's an interesting interpretation...but no, the funeral director did not kill Gregg (or vice versa).

Cue the porno music.

As far as I know, there was no sex, either.

How do you know he didn't kill him? Maybe he killed him, then brought him back to life as one of the walking dead...does he have any bizarre eating habits you're aware of?

Well, his favorite beer is Miller High Life, which sucks. So there's that.

Bumped, because I just told this story to someone on Friday. =)

The man aces a 5 on the AP Calculus Test, and he still can't tie a tie....sigh....

The man aces a 5 on the AP Calculus Test, and he still can't tie a tie....sigh....

If you have special glasses, the last post will show up in 3D.

Shit, I forgot about that. Yes, he did get a 5 on the AP Calc test.

Funny part? He never even cracked the fucking book. Or took notes of any kind, ever.

Scary. Especially since he was high throughout most of senior year.

(Nice to see you posting again, Commander.)

Things have finally calmed down from the Burning Man/San Francisco Fringe Festival season. I think I'm finally sober.

Good to hear. Now get yourself an avatar.

Done.