k. d. lang, "Leavin' On Your Mind" (2003)

Beardsley has a new job, in a new country. That makes him, by my count, the seventh friend who's taking off in the past two, three years. Since he is moving in a few weeks, to a place where he thinks things will be more expensive, and since he's booked part of a shipping container, he's been shopping like mad.

"I decided not to buy the expensive stereo system, by the way," he tells me.

"Just as well. You don't play that much music."

"And the old one will do. I thought I would spend the money on the bed instead. I saw one which might be right -- nice weathered wood."

"Plus, the bed will bring more joy to more people more times than a stereo."

"You bitch."

"Only wishing you well. Plus, you said 'nice weathered wood.'"

Our mutual friend, Petal, thinks that Beardsley will need those wishes. When the job was a mere possibility, she and I had speculated about whether he would jump. She was convinced he wouldn't. "He has it so good here socially, being the kind of person he is, in the kind of place this is." She said this matter-of-factly, without malice. It's true, probably. As a joke, I later said to Beardsley that he should watch the British Queer As Folk. He hadn't even heard of it, but was keen, so I loaned him the complete series. I couldn't imagine him on Canal Street; I'm not sure he can, either.

Petal herself took off to California a few months ago, although it looks like she'll come back in another six months or so. "Just thinking of this as a very expensive vacation," she jokes in an email. When she left, Beardsley took charge of throwing the going-away party. It went off smashingly, despite the fact that, to my horror, Petal invited her insurance agent. If there's ever a party guest who promises to be all up in your grill all the goddamned night, an insurance agent would be it. But surprisingly, she was fine, and even seemed vaguely aware that people would avoid her like the plague if she so much threatened to whip out a card. Maybe they're now properly socialized.

In turn, I have to organize Beardsley's farewell this weekend. Fair enough: he's been quite a good friend, although he talks a lot and listens to me very little. So, like many of my friends, really. If only I had an avenue on which I could ramble on to an invisible but captive audience. Anyway, I'll know about half the guest list; the other half is the riff-raff he's leaving behind. My game plan: lots of alcohol.

To close the circle, or triangle, it would be apt if Petal came back and threw me a going-away shindig, but I don't think that's happening. I feel a little like the Last Girl Standing, that feisty virginal blonde in horror movies who sees her friends gruesomely killed off one by one by a hook-clawed psycho killer. That's me. Except, you know, in this movie everyone wants to be decapitated by the garage door.