I met Andrew before the start of kindergarten. We were both four years old and attended the same church. Our Sunday School had set up a Christmas ice cream party. Whoever my friends were at the time, I've completely forgotten. What I remember is at that party, Andrew ran up to me, his face blanketted in vanilla soft serve, and declared himself, "Frosty the Snowman!"

Throughout elementary school I never went over his house to play. We never even had the same teacher. But whenever I bumped into him at McArthur Elementary or Nativity Catholic, we had a good time. He always made me laugh. One of those class clown types, if you've already forgotten the Frosty the Snowman story. Always a performer, always an entertainer. He was the funniest boy at the talent show, when he used his scrawniness as a gag and declared himself the Champion Arm Wrestler. By middle school, he was a prospering trumpet player. He left high school as the comedian, the trumpet player, and the star of musical theatre, where he proved there were deep true talents behind the wacko facade.

We didn't become true friends until eighth grade. I was running late for a band trip to Atlanta and got one of the last seats on the bus. My friends were all sitting together, but I was stuck next to Ryan, a duh-duh trombone player who I never talked to. I'm sure Ryan was a fine adolescent--- maybe a little weird--- but we had nothing in common, nothing to say to each other. I figured it would be a loooooong bus ride of me staring out the window. For whatever reason, Andrew decided to bail me out. He asked Ryan if he could switch places with him "for just a minute." We talked the whole way up to Atlanta. About what, I don't know. Probably nothing important, though it did indeed prove to be important.

By ninth grade we were best friends. We spent many weekends at my house goofing off and recording comedy skits. I still have these productions on tape, but they are too incriminating to show. Just think of the ideas that would come out of hormonally and adrenaline-charged fourteen-year-olds. They're worse, but damn funny. At school we were part of The Four Amigos, a clan of freshmen trumpet players who worked hard and played hard in band. We each had our roles: John was the animated one, Charlie the tough one, I was the quiet one, and Andrew the crazy one.

When Charlie quit band we became The Three Amigos, and by the end of high school, it was The Two Amigos, just me and Andrew. I'd say it was quite an appropriate ending. He was the friend who immediately got a full page reserved when I got my yearbook. We never had difficulty filling the full page. He was the last friend I said goodbye to before I packed my things and left for Gainesville, and he's still the first friend I call on trips home.

This weekend we met up in downtown Pensacola. It was only 10:30 at night, but the life in Pensacola dwindles by 9:00, so we had McGuire's Irish Pub to ourselves. Andrew turned 21 last Wednesday, and I wanted to take him out and buy him a drink. Our waitress brought out two cold mugs, and just before we tapped our glasses to toast, it hit me. This was a significant landmark, a reflection of our friendship. Here was a guy who I associate with growing up, a boy who once complained to me about how his voice hadn't changed yet, and now we were men drinking our legal beers together.

You're supposed to grow old with your wife. With your friends, there are no guarantees. People move, people change, people forget. I'm blessed to have been able to drink a juice box and a beer with the same friend. Friday night we both grew a little bit older. Together.