The Daily Times

There’s a running joke between myself and my best friend — Darren Dunlap, “The D-Man,” former Daily Times sports reporter as of Tuesday — about him living a secret double life as Batman.

I have never seen him vanquish evildoers, per se, but he nevertheless is prone to disappearing at odd times with no warning or explanation. Whenever we’re out with people who have just made his acquaintance, it always startles them. One minute we’re watching a band on stage, listening to music; the next minute, the D-Man has vanished.

“Where did Darren go?” The Wife asked, perplexed, the first time it happened.

“Oh, he’s off to fight crime,” I replied, shaking my head.

My pal has been this way as long as I’ve known him — going on a quarter-century, ever since we crossed paths in Miller Hall, that old dormitory at Tennessee Technological University that’s long since been torn down. He was ready to bolt after one semester, not that I blamed him; I was more often than not a drunken buffoon, and the rest of the guys who lived on our hall were little better.

The D-Man craved solitude, some place he could read a book and still his racing thoughts. Because they do — race, that is. His brain always seems three steps ahead of what he’s actually doing, and often he seems to zone out of the here and now on thoughts of faraway places, times long gone or roads not taken.

These days, he’s more settled, but there was a time when he would pick up and go. I resented him for that, I’m embarrassed to admit — not the leaving so much as the free-spirited sense of adventure with which he departed, the belief that whatever happened … whether he wound up working as the front desk at a hotel owned by a gibbering shyster who resembled Jabba the Hutt or plowing through a flock of chickens so thick on the interstate that one punched through the grill of his car (both true stories, I might add), that everything was going to be OK. That whatever challenges came his way, he would rise above.

My own uncertainty kept me shackled in place. I needed the security of a job, of a relationship, of the drugs and alcohol that hung around my neck like a metaphorical boat anchor, and so I scoffed at his tendencies and compared him to Kwai Chang Caine from the old TV show “Kung Fu.” But really, I was envious.

He never held it against me. And no matter what I did in my more inebriated states, he always had my back — emotionally and spiritually, even if he was on the other side of the country — when I was at my lowest.

I often think I do not deserve such a loyal friendship. One of the biggest regrets I have is not attending the funeral of his father. I do not know why I didn’t, other than I was probably drunk that day, or too much of a workaholic to take the time to be there for him like he was for me. To this day, he’s never said a word about it. Perhaps because he’s seen me at my darkest.

Unlike some friends who didn’t understand or stopped following when I got too close to the edge, the D-Man never feared those places in which I ventured. Whenever I found myself flailing and drowning, I could always count on his being the first hand reaching over that ledge, encouraging me to grab hold and pull myself up.

Friends like that are hard to come by. They’re a rarity, in fact, and today I don’t take his friendship for granted.

Oh, I still love to give him a hard time; in fact, the D-Man seems to bring out the most obnoxious, infantile and black-humored part of myself that I rarely show to anyone besides my own brother. I greatly enjoy our games of “You Win,” a competition to see who can do or say the grossest, most unimaginable things before the other throws up his hands and says, “You win!” (I’ll leave it to your imagination which of us, more often than not, wins.)

Now that he’s no longer at the Times, I’ll miss him. Yes, I know where he lives, but making those who don’t know us very well wonder, “Are they gay?” just isn’t the same when the only people watching our shenanigans happen to be our wives, who roll their eyes at us like the children like which we’re acting.

The thing is, what makes our light-hearted banter and foolish camaraderie so wonderful is that it stems from a much deeper place. Since finding recovery, I have learned the value of love, and I am not afraid to express it to those about whom I care so deeply.

The love I feel for my friend … my brother … transcends anything as simple as a shared place of employment. He’s not going far, but even if he does, it’ll survive any physical distance as well.

Of that, I’m sure. It has before and probably will again. Because even when he disappears to “fight crime,” or to explore places unknown, I know this — he has been, and always will be, my friend. (And yes, that’s a “Star Trek” reference, and if I was reciting this at a prose reading, I would probably point out that I envision him in the role of Spock from “Star Trek II,” on the other side of the reactor glass, saying that to me as Kirk while he slowly succumbs to radiation poisoning.)

True friends. Real pals. Is there anything more valuable in this big old crazy world? I don’t have many of them, but the ones I do, I treasure. And whether he’s sitting across the newsroom or trekking down some faraway beach hand-in-hand with his bride, the D-Man will always be at the top of that list.

Steve Wildsmith is the Weekend editor for The Daily Times. Contact him at (stevew@thedailytimes.com) or 981-1144.

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