Boris


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My best friend in high school wasn't actually homeless. That's not the type of story most people want to hear. My wife literally attended the high school where the movie “The Breakfast Club” was filmed. A friend of hers had a cameo in “Ferris Bueller's Day Off,” and her sister had to compete with the actress Jami Gertz for the lead in their school play. But that's their story. This is mine.
It was the beginning of my sophomore year in gym class and I was sitting up on the bleachers during roll call while the teacher took attendance for the first time. Roy’s older brother played drums in a metal band with my older brother so the last name stuck out for me.  I was talking to a buddy of mine when the teacher called out the last name St-Pierre.
After class I walked over and introduced myself to Roy. Roy St-Pierre. If you asked him to say his own name his chest would stick out and he'd produce this slight swagger as he pronounced it with a French accent.  On the surface it didn't seem like he had a lot to be  proud of. While we were still in high school he pissed off his mom and got kicked out of the house. Not really. Actually his grandfather saved him from being completely homeless. I don't know how much his mom actually knew about it but Roy lived in the basement. His bedroom was a cushion underneath a workbench.  His mother pretended not to notice.

I don't blame her for kicking him out. Nowadays we would probably call it Oppositional Defiant Disorder. Roy wouldn't listen to anybody. He wouldn't take advice and he couldn't stand criticism. I remember one time he had a wart on his hand. Everybody told him he should just get some Compound W and remove it. Not Roy. The more people told him to get rid of it the more he became determined to keep it.  He loved his wart.  Not only did he not get rid of it, he named it Boris. You couldn't tell Roy anything because he already knew everything. But nobody - not even a defiant teenager - should be homeless.
So my best friend in high school wasn't homeless. That's not the kind of story you tell your wife. Not out of embarrassment - it wasn’t me living under the workbench.  You just don't publicize that element of your life. So when he sent me a text message asking if he could stay with me for a while I suggested he contact our friend Mark.  My wife and I had just spent the past several months with my niece and her two small children staying in our house and I thought I might be pushing my luck if I suggested we let Roy and Boris  moved in.  The problem is Mark thinks Roy may actually be homeless this time . .

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