Kumbaya--Skinny Man Smokin' a Fat Cigar

So Wednesday night I went with Chris, Leah's Chris, to smoke a cigar at a local shop. Yeah, we share that nasty habit, and we come home smelling like a dead dog shat in our hats and lit it afire. I don't want to hear how nasty it is. It is bonding and relaxing, and if a bunch of men want to congregate in some stinky space, smoking like a bunch of lox, well... no indentured prostitutes from Burma are involved, no women, no aids, no drugs but good old tobacco. No one dies in our sweat lodge til the next day perhaps...so there.
And you guys--meaning you women--would be surprised at what we discuss. Women? A little perhaps. How bout movies? Rambo and Rocky and at the very least some Japanese "R" movie with lots of swordplay. RRRRRRRRRRRRRR. ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.
But instead, we discuss the movie where the guy rides his lawnmower to see his brother (that's one of Chris' favorites,) and "Bridesmaids," "City Lights," "Cinema Paradiso," and "The Commitments." And do we discuss where the women in BM's chase about looking to defecate in the street? No. We discuss what chokes us up.
I am choked up at the end of "City Lights" and "Cinema Paradiso." I am choked up in the depression scene in "Bridesmaids." Chris is choked up at the lawn mower movie, and another with William Hurt, and well, we both like "The Commitments." Hell, a man can't always sit around blubbering at a movie God damn it!
So, Chris and I sit there, in the window of a cigar/cigarette/head shop--no offense, it is a wonderful place for men--and we talk about choking up in front of our children and our wives. Half the damn movies I see I am glad for the dark or diverted attention. "Hugo?" Got choked up. Suicide scene in "The Artist?" Damn, I made some crazy noise in the theater trying to suck up the tears over that. Chris? I expect he at least can sob quietly in his seat without giving himself away.
What are we? Fucking pussies?
The two of us. Chris and I sitting there, talking about stuff that you--ladies--would not expect. Not football, or tits, or karate chops, at least not much, but stuff that makes us cry on cue. Play it, you get tears.
We are Kumbaya. In the window, amonst the cigars and lighters and bongs and roach clips, we are just two fucking guys, talking about getting choked up. Talking about our commonalities. How we came to similar places by different highways. How we are failed. How we are frail. Even sometimes we talk about how we have beat the odds.
This is what I find so often.
I find life, filled with bad stretches. We stumble through it. My friends, they stumble through. Doctor's daughters I knew, boys from the wrong side of the track, athletes in high school, Havard grads--we do the best we can, and occasionally, we gather together in some little niche, that no one else finds appealing, and we compare notes.
Meet us there. There's some food, wine, an odor one can smell for blocks, and a bunch of guys talking about crying. In the background--way, way in the background, there is baseball.