The reliably unreliable

Don't let me down.

And we walk down the stadium concourse, two people who have known each other for years, randomly meeting and going right back to the middle of the only conversation we can really have at this point, the one everything is riding on. And we both know it. Smiling but serious. One of us nervous, one of us not. All the real questions unsaid but immediately understood: Are you going to be honest? Are you going to be a grown-up?

Don't let me down.

And I look him in the eye and say it again, my tone light, as if he's not impervious to guilt, as if there's any chance that anything I say or do will have any impact on the outcome of this inevitably sad story.

Don't let me down.

Because that's what he does. Well, not me, in particular, as I've long since given up. My expectations went in the shredder with the bad check he gave us, and how many years ago was that? Long enough ago that the bank was still mailing back paper checks with little notes attached. Can you believe this guy? said the subtext of the NSF notice. You're friends! Why didn't he just tell you? Instead, he costs you $25 more?

Because he can never just tell you. There's always one story then another, and an unnecessary lie or two that contradicts the story anyway, until you just don't care any more, and then every time you see him he looks at you like a puppy facing some mean lady with a rolled up newspaper (though you never said anything to him at all about any of his screw ups, being the friend's wife, and not directly the friend), and oh for the days when he was just embarrassed because he left his dirty underwear in the bathroom floor of an apartment you moved out of in 1994.

It's a shame, really.

Especially because you're relying on him, the most reliably unreliable guy you know, to get you into a game at Lambeau Field sometime in 2007, and already, months ahead of time, the excuses are flying.

He came through last year, in his own way. He never paid for his share of the hotel room, of course; on the other hand, he may have thought it a poor use of his money, pulling into Green Bay as they did at 5:30 a.m. on game day since he can make no distinction between "I'm about 5 miles away," and "I am about five miles away where I am inside a restaurant having wings and fully expect to be hours late" when on his way over to begin a 500 mile drive.

I didn't make that trip, my seat having been eBayed out from under me at the last second, but it's probably a good thing, even though I wanted to go so much that, for a time, anyway, driving hundreds of miles out of my way to take advantage of an unsuspecting Cedar Rapids babysitter seemed like a perfectly logical choice. Because if I'd gotten into that car, I'm sure my wifely silence would have been broken, and I doubt that anyone who has been harangued for a thousand miles would be game for a replay. And this year, I really need to go.

And Mr. Reliably Unreliable needs to learn that it's better to tell his friends one thing that is true rather than three things that he wishes were true before the actual truth comes out in the end. Because he's not a bad guy. He has good intentions and a sense of humor that I always enjoyed back before it was surrounded by eggshells of his own creating. And he has a good job that comes with connections that either will or will not come through. I get it! Don't lead me on, don't let me down: just be straight. That, dude, is what friends do. They do not concoct ever- changing stories that only postpone--and increase-- the inevitable disappointment. At least if I were buying from a scalper I'd already know exactly how it's going to hurt.