My tone fell, and I said, “Sure. Whatever you say.”
“Don’t sound blue, man. Chin up. You’ll find a new roommate before you realize it.”
Maybe so. Maybe not. Time would tell, I guessed.
I told him in a somber tone, semi-depressed, “Sorry to bother you. We’ll talk tomorrow. Forget about The Razz. You’re right, I hate the place.”
“Hang in there,” he replied. “We’ll talk soon, buddy.”
I told him thanks and ended our call.
* * * *
There were very few people who knew my history as well as Dawson Andrews, probably because he and I had been friends for years. Sometimes, we would get drunk together and play a game, taking turns asking each other a variety of personal questions.
If I had asked him, “What’s my favorite color?”
He would have answered, “Green. You’ve always liked green. Your second favorite color is yellow. Your third is orange.”‘
“What position do I sleep in?”
“Fetal. On your right side. Never on your back.”