I was supposed to meet a friend at the bar for the NBA finals. Don't remember who was playing. The friend never showed. Donny did. We locked eyes — half recognition, half relief. I bought him a beer. He bought me one. Shots followed.

I've called him Montana Donny after the third round of shots. Not because he is from Montana, he isn't, but because he needed a nickname. After all, the quickest way to turn a stranger into an acquaintance into a friend is familiarity. Step one is a nickname. It doesn't have to be flattering. Or true for that matter. It just has to be his.

A few hours later we were on the patio of my basement apartment in Chelsea, smoking cigars I had no business owning. Early COVID. The patio wasn't, technically, a licensed bar. That night it was. Cigar in my hand, two whiskies in his — I asked Montana Donny if he wanted to fly to Utah the next day for a golf trip. Twenty-four guys. Five days. One hundred and eight holes. He said yes, opened the Delta app, and booked a flight before the cigar went out.

Sometimes initiative + grand gesture = best friend.