A true story about friendship

My friend Tal from back home in Israel is a big man with the widest roundest eyes I’ve ever known, softly freckled cheeks and a thin fuzz of light hair that has always invited the curious touch of female fingers and has never once let them down. During a time in my life hazy from drug use I recorded a wonderfully hallucinatory conversation with Tal.
“I remember the farm.” He mused. Needless to say, Tal had grown up in the city just as I had. He continued with infectious confidence regardless of that fact. “Yes. We’d milk the chickens. We’d milk the chickens and hunt the hunters.”
“Are you serious?!?” I shot up. “Do you realize what it is that you’re telling me here?!?”
“What do you want from me?” He turned calmly in response to my cries. “What did I ever do to you to make you tell me these things?”
“Wait.” I stopped. “What came out when you milked the chickens?”
“Crazy eggs.” He answered. “But they were smashed, since we’d milked them.”
“In the sixties?” I asked.
“The fifties, man.” He answered.
“Wait, so how old are you now?”
“I don’t know.” He said thoughtfully. “We’d have to count.”
I remember emphatically thinking, ‘that is the best answer to that question that I have ever heard in my entire life’. I was overcome with gratitude. Tal looked at me, knew exactly what was running through my mind and smiled.

We then pushed everything aside with marvelous ease and started counting.