Winging your way toward something more golden than being cool | MARK HUGHES COBB

Like Paul McCartney, I wake up humming melodies. Unlike Sir Paul, I'm not arising with "Yesterday," "Let it Be" or even "Helter Skelter," but more like "Mmm mmm mmmmah mahh mah mout' feels mucky."

I'll be stuck hours, twisting through keys and rhythms, adding counterpoint — "Mee mee meeeeee moh whither rubber ducky" — and slapping time until I drown it with Prine, Boukman Eksperyans, or PJ Harvey.

Monday I woke up thinking of my first-ever-finished song, alternately titled "Cool" or "Sidekick." I was young, and dumb, though I repeat myself. At slightly less young, though in multifarious ways more ignorant, I looked back and thought "Geez, remember when you thought happiness was just one step away? Like when you'd achieve .... "

• A driver's license

• Zit-free face

• Non-recalcitrant hair

• Jeans to fit Ridley Scott-approved thighs

• The ability to speak in sentences around pretty women

• Playing guitar well enough you don't feel embarrassed doing it in public

All zeroed in on a common goal:

Sainthood.

No, wait. Love. Happiness. Peace.

Not necessarily one love, unless you mean Jah/Bob Marley, a thing that might tumble world peace. No, just closeness with someone who made my tongue trip, not in the light fantastic sense.

Maybe find one love. Or one at a time.

Writing is solitary, but on this ditty I reflected how often there'd been a pal at my side, literally, what Dad called a running buddy; what A-plus types deem wingman.

That derivation's from flying, the position for a craft to the side of and behind the lead. The wingman flies support, ready to step in and aid, defend, take fire if necessary, for the lead to accomplish its mission. In the grounded sense, lead and wing can and do shift places.

Though I grew up with two older and two younger brothers, we largely stood alone. Not from dislike, or no more than ordinary in a house where sharing was overbearing. Weirdly enough, it turns out everyone's their own person, separate and unique. Tough to hear yourself in a clamor.

I was probably the weirdest, third of five, surrounded by many older kids roaming Stonebridge. When a pack of bikes went wheeling off, mine would be laid on a curb, or meandering in the opposite direction. Despite my once-favorite Seuss book, "And to Think That I Saw it On Mulberry Street," I shun bandwagons. But I do like to spin tall tales, like "ATTTISIOMS" protagonist Marcos. I once convinced my most gullible older bro that, because I'd gone to Six Flags with pal William Flowers, whose family was wealthy, we'd had the entire place to ourselves, and had been allowed to body-luge down the log flume ride, like otters.

William was one of my Cub Scout-age running buddies. Neighbor Kevin Owens was another, as in a differing sense his older brother Chip, who folks seemed to think was a bad influence: He gave me heavy-metal tapes and Edgar Allen Poe-type books. Odd recognizes odd. Carol Nance was another neighbor-pal, despite being a, you know, girl, in part because she could out-run us all, but also because she was funny and fun. David Reeves, the third A-plus student in our grade at Selma Street Elementary, joining Jane Lamb and me, was an astounding athlete, the kind who made me realize while I was pretty good, I was fit for sandlot and Little League. Had Reeves not suffered knee issues, he'd probably have made the majors, as did his teammate at UA, David Magadan.

After the move from Dothan to Tuscaloosa, eighth grade, I found friends to run beside and with, Bobby Barnett, Scott Donaldson, Bob Tingle, Bernie Clayton, Jim Eiland, Mark Cook, Jack Sharman, Ricky and Danny Burch, the twins Jim and Jack Caldwell ... so many pals. And that's just some of the male buds. I've been a lucky guy.

I can't always remember how we met; great relationships seem inevitable. My fellow Rude Mechanical/Simpletone/IMTP brother Jerrell Bowden and I can't recall meeting, though we know we first Shake-d together in 2005's "Pericles." My ho, Helicanus.

Another gregarious bud — Like William, and Bob T. — from high school days swept me up in his friend-wake. I'm neither extrovert nor intro; just plain vert, but with extra doses of awkward. My father and big brothers set fine examples of how to behave, but weren't much on literal instruction. Only things I can remember Dad telling me about dating, not necessarily in this order:

• Be respectful

• Remember women are different from you and your freak brothers (Wish he'd been a bit more explicit here)

• Don't order the fish.

I used to suffer an easily-triggered head-to-toe blush. I could feel it coming, like pulling a heated blanket up my legs, over my torso, and enveloping my noggin.

So while I had girlfriends pre-school through third grade — Sharon Watkins, then Becky Sollie, Becky Sollie, and Becky Sollie (we renewed love notes) — when grit came to the nit and foolish puberty began rushing in like screaming Kermit, but with braces and the wrong trousers, I lagged behind. Sandy Easom, who like me blossomed early in life, left me literally speechless. Ask anyone at Houston Academy, after idjit Bob Flowers blurted out "Hey Mark! Sandy wants to go steady with you!" on the first day of seventh grade homeroom, ensuring I'd not be able to stand within 10 feet of her for the rest of my days, except briefly, when she was cheerleading and I was pelting down one sideline or another.

A mostly-unspoken facet of wingmandom is that each believes he's the cap'n. Handy when the mission shifts. A perfect wingman has a decent look, fair social skills, a bit of wit and ease, but not enough charm to steal the target. Plenty savoir-faire to date the girlfriend's girlfriend, though.

But in the Bruce Boswell-MHC duo, I was never deceived who took lead. Bruce ran track, stayed tan, blonde and trim, never seemed at a loss. He looked like a more-buff Ken doll, though not dimwitted. I played, um, stuff, but more guitar by that point than sports, and ran only under duress. Bruce brought me along, his charity case.

Rather than look a gift-host in the mouth, I accepted as pal a bona fide cool dude. Bruce showed me how to sneak into bars, and how to swiftly exit when ABC folks arrived. He taught me the point of being out wasn't drinking, but meeting folks, having laughs, sweeping the prettiest in the room off their feet, and onto the dance floor.

Magically, he reminded me of what I'd once known: Women are people. I'll wait as you catch your breath.

Bruce would just walk up — None of this silly "Talk to the best friend" prevarication, jealousy-trap stuff — and talk.

After laborious trial and egregious error, so did, haltingly, I.

We traveled to spring breaks together, experiencing adventures that must remain under wraps, or only for in-person shares. Suffice to say we remained pals even when sometimes attracted to — or attracting — the same women. No fights. Nothing more than an occasional mutter or grumble.

"Cobb," he summed up once, "I make a good first impression. You make a good second."

That'll do, pal.

And he'd smile. Dude had golden looks, and the pearly white dazzle to complement. Never saw him angry. Frustrated, sure, as in the night of "Fooled Around and Fell in Love," and slips of the lips. But not mad.

We fell away. Just life, and its drifts. Saw him at the 20th reunion. I'd heard he'd had health issues, and was worried he either couldn't show or wouldn't be up for a good time.

But he was Bruce, still a sunny center, still a magnet, still happy to see literally every person ever.

I'd fallen to an affliction we sometimes experience with old, lost buds, fixing him in memory's amber. I assumed Golden Boy would play the field forever, a kinder, not-too-sleazy Hugh Hefner.

But no. He'd married Ivy, and would be with her for 42 years, them and their two kids, Tyler Fairchild Boswell and Kelsey Lee Boswell ... until his death last week.

Though I'd have sworn high school Bruce smiled the wildest possible grin, I was wrong.

The look on his face, discussing his family? Golden.

He'd found what he'd been looking for all along, while we were out cruising beaches, McFarland Boulevard, skating rinks, parties, clubs and campuses: His sidekicks, his protectors and protected; his life-long loves.

Reach Tusk Editor Mark Hughes Cobb at mark.cobb@tuscaloosanews.com.

This article originally appeared on The Tuscaloosa News: Sidekicks, partners, pals, wingmen, buddies, duos | MARK HUGHES COBB