I had a friend like that once. His name was Robert Hughes Jr. He was known as “Rocky.”
He and I connected just after we both graduated from Southside High School in my hometown, Muncie, Indiana. I was in the 1972 graduating class; he was in the ’73 class. We were a year apart and I just knew of Rocky during our school days.
The name fit Rocky. He was unorthodox, different, likeable, loud (the life of the party) and extremely popular. In contrast, I was laid back, quiet and unassuming. There’s the odd couple. A friendship?
We did things together such as socialized, although I wasn’t big at that, but I had my moments. But, again, he was the life of the party. People loved him.
I remember he had a Chevy Monte Carlo. Rocky drove the you-know-what out of that car. He was wild. We had our arguments, too. Rocky would do whatever that would make me so angry that wanted to throw him off the planet. But at the end of the day, he would be over my house, sitting at the table as my mother served up one of her meals, probably some good old fried chicken.
Another time I remember my grandmother “Granny” got sick. She had to go to the hospital. Rocky and I went to visit her. Granny was dying. I begin to cry as she lay in the hospital bed. I looked over at Rocky…and he was crying, too. That was 1975, the year Granny died.
About this same time, Rocky’s health began to fail. He had Lupus, a blood disorder that is often fatal. He lost weight, his hair started coming out. His skin peeled off. Through it all, he was still Rocky, - very personable. But he was hurting, from the illness and the idea of being sick. There were days he didn’t have the energy to do anything. We would be in my apartment and just sit, listening to record albums.
We shared. He shared his pain; I shared mine.
My best friend Rocky died in 1976 at age 21.
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