Wyatt was a jovial, teddy bear of a guy in a Seattle Seahawks jersey and, despite the iffy weather, flip-flops. His long, dark gray hair was pulled back into a coarse ponytail that looked like steel wool. And instead of shaking my hand he gave me a big, back-cracking hug and said, “Any brother of Chris’s is a brother of mine.”

Walking into the venue from the top of the hill, we could see the Bay Bridge and the cityscape of San Francisco in the distance. And just behind the theater was Campanile, the bell tower on campus, looming above all the other buildings in Berkeley. The window of Sid’s old office was visible a few streets away, as was the dorm where I’d lived freshman year.

I pointed out the dorm to Cal, and he wanted to know what it had been like to live there, as if it were an exotic experience compared to his adventures in New York. He listened while I gave him the dull rundown, and he asked specific, funny questions: Was there a cafeteria in the building? Were the bathrooms coed? Did you have a curfew? Did you sleep with a lot of girls? Then he wondered aloud why the massive gap in our friendship didn’t make us strangers, but before I had a chance to ponder that, he said, “Because we aren’t strangers. We’re brothers.”

“You know, for as long as I lived in Berkeley,” I told him, “I’ve never been to the Greek Theater.”

“Me neither.”

We walked through the gate together, and the rush of tenderness I felt for him in that moment was suffocating, like a hand over my mouth.

Wyatt escorted us in through the back so that Cal could see the stage from the farthest point. The theater, built in the Greek Revival architectural style, is a near replica of the one in Epidaurus, and it feels historic and holy, like an ancient ruin in the middle of a city, the kind of place where Aristotle might have given lectures about how to live up to one’s potential as a human.

“It’s gonna sound epic in here tonight,” Wyatt said.

We walked down the steep cement bleachers and climbed onto the stage. A couple of roadies had just unrolled a big Persian rug, and another was setting up the drum kit. Cal stopped to introduce me to his guitar tech, a good-looking African-American kid, Justin, who was so skinny he looked flat from the side, like a piece of paper, his thick, sphere-shaped afro the only dimension noticeable.

I turned around and scanned the empty venue. “What does it feel like? Standing up here during a show, knowing all the people out there are here to see you?”

Cal didn’t answer. He just gave me a wily grin and shrugged.

Wyatt walked us backstage, where big oak trees were strung with bright blue strands of lights, colored paper lanterns hung from wires that dangled over couches and chairs, and a big bar was being set up in the corner.