How I met a lifelong friend when I moved to Boston for a new job – The Boston Globe

Opportunity drew me to Boston in 1977. I took a job at an architectural firm in the North End and moved to an apartment in Inman Square in Cambridge. It was such a great place to live — Legal Sea Foods, Ryles, the Inn-Square Men’s Bar, and the S&S Deli were all within a block of my front door. But there was one big problem: I didn’t know a soul in the area and really wanted to make friends outside of work.

Could spending some time at local watering holes be the answer? I decided to take my chances.

One evening I was perched on a barstool at the newly opened Springfield Street Saloon across the street. It was pretty much empty except for another guy sitting several stools away staring at the TV. Both of us were groaning in pain at some pathetic play by the Red Sox and started to chat from a distance. I slid over and introduced myself — or it could have been the other way around, I don’t remember. But most importantly, I met Jeff.

The next night we were both there again. And the next. We became good friends over the course of the summer and best friends not long after that. Jeff was the avid sportsman that I could never become. He took me tuna fishing off Gloucester, and to a sportsman’s club for lessons in marksmanship.

He was a classic extrovert and optimist who was working as a fledgling music promoter. I was a classic introvert hopelessly tied to a desk, quietly sketching designs. But somehow our sense of humor, outlook on life, and respect for each other cemented our friendship. I never expected to meet someone in such a random way and become such close friends. I joined him at Sox games, Pats games — we even went to the Police and J. Geils concerts at the Garden with backstage passes.

The Blizzard of 1978 didn’t put a damper on the fun at Jeff’s apartment. The weeklong Blizzard Party at his place could not be rivaled. He called me one night at 4 a.m., asking if I had any aspirin because Sting, lead singer of the Police, was at his apartment with a headache!

Jeff even found me a new apartment in his building near Harvard Square. He never wanted anything in return, just my company. And I was always there for him.

Over the years, our lives changed quite a bit. We both moved to different towns with our fiancées. Jeff came to my wedding, and after my daughters were born, he became a favorite of theirs as they grew up. He joked with my wife that she could have done much better than me.

From that chance barstool meeting, I talked with my best friend almost every day for over 40 years. Whenever our wives heard us howling on the phone, they knew immediately who was on the line.

A few years ago, Jeff fell ill, and was in the hospital. I sensed this was quite serious and went to visit him against his wishes. He didn’t want me to see him in his declining condition. “Do you remember when . . . ?” was the topic that day. I had to tone down my usual rants, because it hurt him so much when he laughed.

Later, I said goodbye and left the room. As I turned down the corridor, I heard Jeff call out, “I love you, man.” I was going to turn around and go back into the room but didn’t want him to see me crying. That seemed pretty dumb then, and still does. A few weeks later, I got a call from his wife, Joanne, telling me he had passed away.

Five years later, Jeff is still on my speed dial, and I cannot tell you the number of times I have almost called him for his take on the day’s events. Because you just never know.

Mark Bernstein is a writer in Newton Centre. Send comments to magazine@globe.com.

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