Off The Wall

A fall prompts an avid moviegoer to question his motives

We would often wrestle - sometimes, in the unlikeliest of places.

Our most memorable match - the one we still laugh about - took place in his bedroom, situated in a low-rent, high-rise apartment a half-mile from the city post office. Depressed over his recent break-up with a girl, he could not be riled out of bed. His mother, who had endured this for some time, said to me: "I'm beginning to think that he's giving up on girls altogether."

I bounced on the bed, and a pink, tousle-haired bundle emerged from the cocoon of sheets. Despite his sadness and lethargy, in no time, there were gales of laughter, and, inevitably, wrestling. That, of course, is when his mother, more and more convinced that her son was considering substitutes for the opposite sex, walked into the room, with the two of us atop his bed in a particularly involved leg hold.

Needless to say, there weren't too many more of impromptu wrestling matches after that one...until the wall.

The wall was a waist-high brick barrier separating the apartment building from a strip mall. That fateful evening, I had just coerced this friend of mine, never much of a moviegoer, to accompany me to the latest Gene Wilder comedy at a downtown theatre. When he began to change his mind, a wrestling match ensued. Though I weighed all of 90 pounds in those days, I somehow managed to push him off the wall - and on to that safest of landing cushions, his right knee.

I didn't spend that evening in the company of Gene Wilder - unless Gene was quietly patrolling the halls of the nearest emergency room. When my friend emerged some back room in an obviously uncomfortable cast, I tried to make light of it all; inside, however, I began to ponder, for the first time in my life, my love of the movies; specifically, it intensity, and the extremes that that intensity was capable of driving me to.

Semi-sourly, some 25 years later, my friend said to me, "Listen to this, pal", and began to bend his right knee for me. With each application of pressure, the knee made a sound like a strongman squeezing a plastic bottle. The excruciating discomfort, the sleepless nights, and the failed therapies were explained to me in full detail. An operation was imminent, brought on by "a history of previous injury.

After a quarter century's absence, my guilt over my love of movies was back.

The next time we met - a year or so later - my friend had acquired a number of new interests: religion, and bodybuilding. The latter he took special pride in. Most of the expected dinner conversation, in fact, was replaced by proud flexes of his oak-like arms, his massive shoulders, and his protruding pecs. When he began to brag about how many pounds he could lift over his head, I commented meekly, "Uh...I assume your knee is all better." "Oh", he offered quickly, "my knee was cured by the Lord a year ago" - then proceeded to make his calves pop out.

The Lord, then, had bagged himself a two-for-one deal, removing both my friend's pain and, at long last, my guilt, allowing me to enjoy the movies with intensity again.