The John Bennett

In photographs, The John Bennett and I appear to be the perfect, happy couple. But that’s just John and me hamming around, pretending to be a commercial for Lavalife. We tell anyone within earshot that we like breathing, getting paid, and long walks on the beach.

We can’t help it if we look so good together in front of the camera. Perhaps John’s husband would be jealous of all those pictures of us in Chicago, New York, and Toronto, but usually he is the one taking the pictures. The three of us are rather inseparable, and have been for many years. Gonzalo and I have been colleagues for over six years and have coordinated endless projects, parties and functions together. The John Bennett was facing the guillotine in my mind for stealing Gonzalo’s heart- until I met him and deemed him perhaps the only acquaintance remotely worthy to be my dear friend’s husband.

Quite often, John and I embarrass the husband with our puerile antics and a theatrical sense of humour that no one but the two of us seem to get. We love to complain at length about just about everything, and take great care to find the longest words with which to embellish our discontent. We must turn the simplest transactions like getting gas or ordering pizza into an ordeal worthy of endless rehashing anecdotes. Inside joke: “thank you for your attention to this matter.”

It is frightening how slim the chance of fate was in bringing this friend to Toronto. What if Gonzalo had never gone to Chicago to see his friend Lucio? Then he would never have met Lucio’s roommate with the funky red and grey apartment. What if that roommate was super cool but not The John Bennett? What if The John Bennett was not the romantic warrior that he was, and had not decided to move to Canada to marry? Then I would have been shit out of luck.

The John Bennett has been The Best Friend a Girl Could Have. He is loyal and caring and understanding and tolerant. I can depend on him to protect me, stand up for me, and tell it like it is when I’m not seeing clearly. He has listened to me for hours when others are sick and tired of my whining and crying. He has patiently tended to me when I was sick. He has rescued me from countless horrible situations in which I impetuously find myself.

He has always picked me up, dusted off the dirt, and sent me back in the forward direction he expects me to stay headed in. He endures the dramas. He reads drafts of my writing. He bravely tags along when I’m satisfying my penchant for hole-in-the-wall soul food restaurants, though he is far too stylish to set foot in most of them. He gave me the greatest honour when he and Gonzalo asked me to be Best Girl at their wedding.

One summer when I was sick, tired, broke and depressed, The John Bennett insisted on renting a car and a cabin and taking our little family to Jack Lake. From the second we arrived, he was fixing pisco sours and mojitos without fail. And no matter what I divulge of my secret interior while under the spell of the moon and the mojito, The John Bennett holds my divulgence in sacred secrecy. We call our mutual spilling That of Which We Will Not Speak.

On top of his heroic generosities, hilarity, trustworthiness, and solid family values, The John Bennett is a hardworking man with superior organization and leadership skills. He is gentle in spirit and totally fierce. He is the kind of friend who encourages his loved ones to be all they can be, but he doesn’t expect perfection and is one of the few who can be privy to my private shames without my complete embarrassment. Because The John Bennett is one of the few to whom I can turn who can offer solutions and ways out of my muddles.

And despite the multiple memories of happy times dancing and eating and laughing, whether traveling or at parties or at weddings, the memory that stands out most for me may be the most morbid.

The John Bennett stood against the beach with boats sailing by in the background, speaking at my husband’s funeral. Days before, John and Gonzalo were in Peru, and when they heard the horrible news, they made my name in rocks on the Peruvian beach and photographed it from above. Now, looking sharp and handsome in his button-up shirt and church shoes and Chanel sunglasses, The John Bennett stood before a congregation and told them all how great he thinks I am.

He praised my survival skills and offered publicly his love and support. The wind was whipping his strawberry hair and tears were streaming down our faces at this most solemn event, and in the horrible hollows of loss, I felt a giant safety net and knew I would never fall apart when I had so much holding me together. I made some embarrassing quip about John being paid to advertise my abilities under adversity, but the truth is, when someone like The John Bennett believes in you, you know inside that you can do anything.

Whether driving me in the rain to pick up my Pamprin, or making me laugh when my soul is sick of crying, The John Bennett will be there.

Visit Lorette C. Luzajic at www.thegirlcanwrite.net.