See how far some folks will go for their friends

Jim Goldsworthy, Columnist

I have two friends who are brothers. One lives Here, and the other lives There.

Folks who are acquainted with one, but not the other, don’t want to believe me when I tell them, “He has a brother who’s just like him.”

Let’s call these guys Sam and Dave.

Sam, who is the younger one, recently asked me, “Are there any more characters around here, or are my brother and I all that’s left?”

When they were kids, Dave dropped Sam’s BB gun into a narrow, seemingly bottomless crevice atop Queen’s Point. (“I wanted to see if it would fit,” he said, “and it did.”) A few years later, Sam sold Dave’s bicycle for $5 after Dave went into in the Army.

Sam was in the Goldsworthy Barber Shop when a man came in and asked my uncle if he wanted to give to such and such a charity.

“Abe pointed to Henry Groudan,” he said, “and told him, ‘He owns this place. Ask him.’ So he did. Henry said, ‘Why, I’d be glad to,’ and went to the cash register, hit ‘NO SALE,’ took $10 out of the drawer and gave it to him.

“You should have seen the look on Abe’s face and your grandfather’s face. But that was a lot of money back then, and Henry gave it back to them.”

Uncle Abe told me, “I was fired more times than a French 75 (a cannon). Your grandfather couldn’t read or write, but he had no trouble counting money. Every time the day’s receipts came up short, it was my fault and it came out of my pay.

“One day, we were a quarter or 50 cents short, and Dad said it was my fault. I’d heard enough of that and said, ‘Now, listen, fella ... ,’ and I was fired again,” he said.

Dave worked near the barber shop, and he could always tell when Abe had been tossed.

“I’d see him leave during the middle of the day and head up the alley, and he had a real sad face on him,” Dave said. “Your grandfather would come out and stick his head around the corner to watch him walk away, and he looked just as sad.”

By the next morning, Abe was always back at work.

“There was a big snowstorm,” said Sam, “and an older fellow who owned a store across the street asked Abe if he would drive him and his car home. He lived up on Fort Avenue,” which is one of Keyser’s longest and steepest hills and a considerable walking distance from Abe’s home on Church Street — especially in the snow.

Abe didn’t hesitate. He said he would do it.

“When they pulled up in front of the man’s house,” said Sam, “he turned to Abe and said, ‘OK, slide over and I’ll take you home.’ ”

I didn’t ask how the story ended. It’s perfect, just as it is.

Sam had a similar experience involving a different fellow.

“This man lived in Romney and had really been drinking,” Sam said. “He had no business driving a car, so I told him I would drive him and his car home.”

Romney is more than 20 miles from Keyser ... a lot farther than Fort Avenue is from Church Street. If you’ve ever wondered why folks say, “No good deed goes unpunished,” consider this scenario and it may give you an idea.

“On the way to his house,” said Sam, “we passed a restaurant and the man said, ‘Let’s stop and have a steak dinner.’ So we went in and had a wonderful steak dinner, and he paid for it. He had a bottle with him and kept drinking the whole time.

“When we got to his house, it was dark. He wanted me to drive around slowly with the headlights off and put the car in the garage so he could sneak into the house.

“His wife was waiting for him, and she came out with a broom and beat him half to death with it. I tried to stay away from her so she wouldn’t blame me and hit me with it.

“He was holding his arms up, trying to keep her from hitting him with the broom, and he looked at me and said, ‘That woman’s crazy!’ ”

Sam made his escape, walking briskly down the street to distance himself from Romney’s version of the War of the Roses.

It was then that he began to wonder how he would get back to Keyser.

“I’d probably have to hitchhike with half a dozen people, and it would take me all night,” he said. “They’d say, ‘I’m only going as far as Burlington,’ or ‘I’m just going to Ridgeville, or The Junction ... .’

“About that time, Abe pulled up beside me in his Cadillac, rolled down the window and said, ‘Get in.’ I asked him what he was doing in Romney, and he said, ‘Whaddaya think?’ ”

My uncle had seen what his friend was doing, got into his car and followed him. When Sam and the drunk stopped to eat, Abe sat outside at a discreet distance and waited.

“That’s the type of man your uncle was,” said Sam.

I didn’t say so, but it seemed to me that both of them must have been cut side-by-side from the same cloth. You’d do well to have either one in your foxhole, watching your back ... or Dave, for that matter. Our families have shared more than a century of friendship.

Sam’s face crinkled, and his voice quivered as he talked about how close he and my uncle had been.

“I’d give anything,” he said, “to see Abe and your grandfather and your dad walk in here.” I told him I’d cover the rest of whatever it cost.

A bit later, Dave introduced Sam and me to a friend of his, a young woman who works downtown.

“Where do you live?” Sam asked her.

She said she lived in Scherr, which is almost as far from Keyser as Romney is.

“Scherr?” asked Sam. “How do you get down here?”

“In my car,” she said.

A simple statement, that. She could have had no idea why it affected Dave and me the way it did.