Months ago, I found my friend Michele Wolf using this blog.

Encouraged, I went on a hunt for a childhood friend named Bobby. Bobby and I used to play on 74th Street in Brooklyn, New York. I considered him among my closest friends in grammar school.

I called friends in Bay Ridge looking for him. No one had any information. I have a friend who does private investigations from time to time look for him. She found nothing. I believed he was dead.

God bless her, Christine Ness from my grammar school (we’re having a reunion on September 13, I’m flying in from Seattle to go to it) started finding everyone on Facebook. And finally, a mutual friend’s sister put me in touch with a one of his relatives on Facebook.

I sent a message. Months passed. Then he answered and – just like that – I had Bobby’s phone number.

Mr. Slate!

I called Bobby this week. Thrilled, I heard him pick up.

“Bob?”

“Who is this?”

“It’s Mr. Slate!”

Ridiculous, I know, but 27 or so years ago in high school, we had a gym teacher named Mr. Slater who was out sick one day. It was announced to us, as was every announcement, on a neatly typed and posted correspondence on the Main Office showcase. There was a missing “r.” That’s all it took for two immature teens to say “Mr. Slate” again and again over the course of weeks. I still think of the funny, slurred way we said it. And it still makes me laugh.

“It’s Mr. Slate!” I shouted out gleefully.

“Click” came the abrupt response. Bob had hung up on me.

Maybe I confused him? He didn’t remember Mr. Slater? It has been a quarter century, after all. Maybe he thought it was a crank call.

I tried again and went immediately to voicemail. “Hi, this is Joe Hage – Joey Hage from 76th Street,” I clarified. “I’m sorry if I scared you away there. I had said ‘Mr. Slate,’ you know, like our old joke? Anyway, I got your number from John. It’s been a really long time and I think of you now and again. I’d love to get in touch with you again. Call back when you have a moment.”

I wasn’t surprised when the phone did not ring.

Try, try again?

I’m home today, all alone. Beth and the kids took their annual trip to Cape Cod where Beth’s best friend has a summer house. They chit-chat. Karen’s kids play with my kids. It’s Beth’s time, not really a trip for me.

I read “Crazy Love” (great book) cover to cover. I slept late (since the dog got me up – and kept me up – at 3:30 a.m.). I thought I’d give Bob another try.

I called. No answer. I hung up.

15 minutes later, the phone rang. It was Bob’s number.

“Hello?” I started, thinking anything more aggressive would result in the same outcome.

“Hello? You called this number a few minutes ago?”

“Yes,” and in as clear a speaking voice as I could offer (so there would be no confusion),”it’s Joe Hage.”

Click.

I don’t for a moment think he’s mad at me. I guess he doesn’t want to connect with anyone from his past.

Why look in the first place?

Why was I looking? I don’t know. I guess I’m sentimental.

I used to think of Bob as a best friend. I remember helping him get through Xaverian (he had a problem with Senior English, as I recall), and remember being happier seeing him get his diploma than I was getting my own.

I still say “Mr. Slate!” to myself from time to time. And if I wear corduroys on a cold wintry day, I think of the ridicule he got from our band of friends about “Bobby Jeans” – these cords he had with unusually wide treads.

I rejoiced to learn he was still alive. I heard his voice. I can be content with that.

Have you ever looked for an old friend?

What happened you found him or her?
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