I used to embrace my hangovers. I used to wear my bloodshot eyes as badges of honor, a reminder of how hard I had partied the night before, how far I was willing to push myself. I used to enjoy my next day on the couch, or the bed, or the bathroom floor, foolishly thinking that it was the price to be paid for having a good time. I used to honestly believe that the pain was necessary, the guilt and shame that accompanied it were just parts of life. I felt this was something I had to go through on a regular basis in order to feel some sort of emotion. Maybe not happiness or even good at all, but at least it felt real.
When I was in high school my life changed. No one died, I didn’t get sick, nothing outwardly tragic happened. I moved. I left the place that was familiar and comfortable for a place that was foreign and cold. Eagan's a cold place to newcomers. Not that big of a deal, I know. Tons of high school kids do it every year, a lot of my good friends moved in high school and were fine. Then there was me, I didn’t want to make friends, I didn’t want to fit in. So I didn’t. I taught myself how to be cold, how to get along alone, how to forget about caring. To largely forget about what it meant to be happy. And that’s still a huge part of my life. To be unfeeling, uncaring. If you don’t get attached, you don’t get hurt. Every young adult understands this lesson to some extent. When you don’t get too up in life you can’t fall that far. I fell that far in my own way, and never wanted it to happen again.
So time passed, and I made new friends, really good friends. I’m beyond fortunate to call some of the best people in the world my good friends. But I never let up with trying to keep myself distant, not caring, not being let down. And somewhere in towards the end of high school and the beginning of college I discovered alcohol. Here was an escape, a path allowing me to feel something, be it a euphoric high or a horribly depressing hangover. But at the same time, I didn’t have to get too close. I could always blame everything on being drunk. Drinking itself doesn’t interest me, it’s the being out of control, the allowing myself some emotion, and some feeling that I’m so into. I think it’s time I let go of alcohol and figured out how to feel something without 15-30 drinks beforehand. I have, even before drugs and alcohol, a really self-destructive streak. Maybe its for attention, I’m not entirely sure. I want to see how badly I can fuck up, to get someone, anyone to pay attention to me. Which leads me to doing incredibly stupid things. I am exceptionally talented at fucking up the good things I have going in my life. The worst part about it is that when I know that I’m fucking up, and I make no attempt to change my actions.
This last month has been a really horrible one. I’ve managed to offend just about every single one of my good friends. I’ve offended friends of friends. Cab drivers. It takes a lot to get kicked out of First Ave. Bartenders, servers and bouncers. Old friends and new alike, it’s made no difference. I’d met the most wonderful girl, the first new girl that I’ve met in so long who made me feel something, and I’ve completely pushed her out of my life. I was afraid. I was weak and immature, and as soon as things didn’t go exactly how I wanted them to, I freaked out. I was so mean, so hurtful, that it wouldn’t surprise me if she didn’t want to be friends at all, let alone something more.
I’m sorry to every single one of my friends. I’m sorry to my family. I’m sorry to the people I’ve hurt directly, and those I’ve ignored. I am a better person than this. You deserve better from me.
They say you have to hit rock bottom before you can get better, I think this is as far as I want to go.
A few years ago, I saw a psychiatrist for awhile, was on medications for depression and anxiety. Not a lot of people know that. Now a lot do, and I’m ok with that. I’d even recommend therapy to most people. I had a lot of family issues, I resented my parents for moving me in high school, and haven’t really gotten along with them since. I was having trouble with school, work, friends, and for the first time, drinking. The meds might have helped, maybe not, but I wasn’t really getting any better, so I ran away. That’s something I’ve learned, it’s easier not to get close to people, to allow them to get close to you if you’re not around them. So I ran, and felt better for awhile. Eventually things got worse, so I ran away again and got better.
When I take off, it’s because I can’t handle my situation anymore. School, family, friends, work, girls. I quit school because I couldn’t handle it. Not the work, just the routine, the normalcy, the fact that it made me a functioning person, it made me normal. I could only do it for so long before I started getting restless, drinking more, drinking harder. The same thing with my friends. My wonderful friends make me feel so good, better than I feel myself, I couldn’t handle them. There’s a really good Henry Rollins’ quote talking about his fans, strangers, who love his music, “I don’t like myself as much as they like me. How fucked up I am these days.” That’s exactly how I’ve felt for so long. I have such amazing friends, the best people in the world. I don’t like myself, so how can they like me? And so I drive them away, and if that doesn’t work then I run away.
I had always thought I was searching for a home, someplace I’d feel like I belong. Somewhere along the way I realized that you have to feel right inside before you can feel like you belong. I haven’t felt right on the inside for as long as I can remember, but I don’t feel like running anymore. So I’m not going to. This has to stop, I need to feel good again.
This is my declaration to everyone I know.
I’m going to be a better person. And I know it’s going to take time. I’m going to lay off the drinking to get trashed and out of control. I’m going to stop the destructive behavior as a way to get attention. I probably won’t go out very much for awhile, I don’t know that I can have just one beer or even a couple beers without having a dozen beers. I’m tired of my hangovers and the shame of trying to figure out just who I need to apologize to the next day. As ridiculous of a job as I have, I like it because it’s steady. I like the normalcy, the routine. It makes me feel like an adult. And I want to be a writer, so I’m going to work on that, but I’m going to keep this job too. I’m going to start working out more regularly, eating healthier too. I’m going to start going to church more regularly. I know that I probably don’t believe all of it, but I do know that it gives me a sense of peace, maybe it’s the routine, but maybe it’s something more. I’m going to be as sweet as I can to that girl, maybe it’s not too late. And if it is, I’m going to work on being alright with that. I’m going to get right with my family, they deserve better from me. I’m going to get right with myself.
I’m going to be a better person.
This is going to take time, but I’m going to work at it. I’m ready to be happy. Thank you for all you’ve done for me.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Sunday, January 28, 2007
The Dragon
They’re messing around in her car, with the passenger seat all the way down. The engine is turned off and they stay warm from the steam that’s rising off their bodies and coating the windows with an opaque screen. There are people coming out from the bar, smoking cigarettes and shuddering in the cold. They notice movement in the car, but avert their eyes.
“We can’t make it another late night again,” he groans, “I’ve got to go to work in the morning.”
“I know,” she says, “I can’t show up with bloodshot eyes again.”
But she keeps straddling him, her leg jammed against the gearshift. She unzips his jeans and lets her fingers creep in through the opening. He looks around, thinking suddenly about the smokers outside and about how he’s showing skin.
“Don’t worry,” she says, “They can’t see us.” She turns and purses her chapped lips to breathe new frost onto the window. She is like a dragon from medieval Japan, smoke tendrils curling out from her nostrils.
He thinks about his wife at home and for a moment has the inexplicable urge to tell the story about how his wife almost caught him once, making out with a girl from the martial arts center. He draws his lips together to keep the words from coming out.
She tugs the hood of her coat up, so that a vast blanket of material covers their bodies. Her face disappears into darkness and the cloak begins to rise and fall. Her back and shoulders seem continuous with the outside, with the line of loitering smokers who clutch at their bodies and rock against the tipsy wind.
Soon, she crawls up the length of his body and whispers, “Next time, let’s do this at your place. I’ll spend the night.”
“Promise?” he murmurs. Then he studies her face for faults and resolves to slay the head of the dragon. Outside, the smokers shift in place, stumbling drunkenly against one another.
“We can’t make it another late night again,” he groans, “I’ve got to go to work in the morning.”
“I know,” she says, “I can’t show up with bloodshot eyes again.”
But she keeps straddling him, her leg jammed against the gearshift. She unzips his jeans and lets her fingers creep in through the opening. He looks around, thinking suddenly about the smokers outside and about how he’s showing skin.
“Don’t worry,” she says, “They can’t see us.” She turns and purses her chapped lips to breathe new frost onto the window. She is like a dragon from medieval Japan, smoke tendrils curling out from her nostrils.
He thinks about his wife at home and for a moment has the inexplicable urge to tell the story about how his wife almost caught him once, making out with a girl from the martial arts center. He draws his lips together to keep the words from coming out.
She tugs the hood of her coat up, so that a vast blanket of material covers their bodies. Her face disappears into darkness and the cloak begins to rise and fall. Her back and shoulders seem continuous with the outside, with the line of loitering smokers who clutch at their bodies and rock against the tipsy wind.
Soon, she crawls up the length of his body and whispers, “Next time, let’s do this at your place. I’ll spend the night.”
“Promise?” he murmurs. Then he studies her face for faults and resolves to slay the head of the dragon. Outside, the smokers shift in place, stumbling drunkenly against one another.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
my son
Tell me my son, why are you here?
Girl troubles Father, girl troubles.
So tell me my son, what are your troubles?
Fuck me Father, where do I start.
Well my son, you said you had girl problems, what are the roots of yours problems?
Troubles Father, I have Troubles, that’s a different story than problems.
You’re right my son, tell me of your troubles.
I’ll tell them to you Father, let’s sort this out together. Fuck me, I haven’t been to confession in ten years, but I can’t sort this out on my own, what can you do for me?
I can show you what you already know. I can lift the veil of confusion.
Father forgive me, but you have to understand my skepticism. I haven’t been to the church in ten years, but Father, I have read the newspapers in the interim. I understand about things, and about sins that the church has committed, but Father, I don’t condemn you, if your conscious is clear, that’s good enough for me.
Go ahead my Son.
Well Father, like I said, girl troubles. You see, I’m in love. Enamored, I have this crush. And it leaves me at a loss.
Some would say that this isn’t a trouble at all, more of a joyous occasion.
Not me Father. Don’t get me wrong, I love women, I love the way they smell and the way they smile, but I love women Father, plural. And it fits my lifestyle. I don’t know that I have the time or the patience, my lifestyle dictates a certain amount of discretion, and it’s just easier not to get too attached to a single broad.
What lifestyle is that my son, that your life would not be improved by the love of a good woman?
Let’s not get too deep here Father, the lifestyle isn’t what bothers me, it’s this love thing. I deal with a lot of unsavory characters, I tend to keep odd hours, I may not be the most…respectable of people. Let’s say this love thing did go somewhere, I’d be worried to meet her parents, I’m not the guy that parents would normally choose for their daughter to bring home.
Are you a criminal of some sort?
Not exactly, I just know a lot of people. I’ve kind of been on the edge of everything. And it is something I’m working on Father, I’ve done some moving around, and I’ve seen a lot of things, and I think I’m ready to become a respectable person, a grown up, if you will Father. But I’m not there yet. I’ve got a decent job, it’s a tough job, but the pay is decent, I live in a respectable place, and I have wonderful friends. I don’t keep in contact with those old friends, the ones that kept me on the edge of things, I’ve found writing Father, it helps for me to have a creative outlet, and I’m even fairly decent at it. But I’m sort of new to this respectable life. I like it, in fact it’s wonderful but its also unfamiliar. And what’s worse, this is the type of girl that a guy dreams about. I’m worried Father, that this is too good of a thing to pass up.
What is it that draws you to her?
Oh man Father, where do I start? She’s beautiful, and that’s initially what caught my eye. She’s a good friend of a good friend, so her references check out, I’ve had problems with dating shady girls in the past, so this is important to me now. Maybe she was too good to start, because all my boys had their eyes on her too. And I deferred, even after I heard that she wanted to get to know me better.
Why?
It’s cliché, but I honestly thought she was out of my league. It was a lot of easier to defer to my boys and let them take their shot.
On the one hand, it was good of you to respect your friends, on the other you come off as cowardly, my son.
Ho! No need to break my balls here Father, I know what I did. It wasn’t easy, but a large part of me was hoping that this girl and one of my friends would hit it off fantastically. Look at it this way, at the time, I didn’t even know her, I had just broken off a fairly unhealthy relationship and what’s more, I like to see my friends happy.
Justify it as you may, but I think if you look inside yourself, you’ll find that you were more scared than anything. Scared of this grown up life you’re trying to create, and how it all fits together. But go on, how do things play out with this girl? And you haven’t really answered my earlier question of what draws you to her.
Interesting. As for what draws me to her, that’s a bit more complicated. I like her because she’s strong, she’s independent with a touch of a stubborn streak. She’s so smart, and she’s done the school to job thing so well. I like her because she’s a professional, but she can still procrastinate. I like her because she likes music, even though it’s definitely different from most of the music I like. I like her because she likes to cuddle, and how her room smells, and how she holds onto me so tightly when she’s asleep. I like her because she likes me back.
This all sounds wonderful my son, where do the troubles come into play? Because unless you have a distorted view of her, it sounds like she likes you, and if she does then she’s going to accept you for who you are. This doesn’t sound like much trouble at all.
That’s just it Father, I don’t know. We have our days where everything seems so wonderful, and then a day later she seems to reject me. She is so busy, and so am I, but in different respects. Sometimes it’s hard to see each other. And it seems like if we can manage to get some quality time together, the next day she makes up for it by rejecting me. Sometimes we hang out in big groups, and she hardly acknowledges me. And then other times when we’re together, she makes me feel like the most special person in the world. It baffles me Father. The uncertainty hurts me. And what’s worse, I don’t usually open myself up to other people, I’m private and independent and stubborn too. I’ve been hurt pretty badly and so it’s a lot easier to keep things to myself, to stay guarded, to not get too close, not let anyone in. As consequence, I’m not used to this sort of thing. Though I don’t know for certain, I suspect she’s been hurt pretty badly too, and it makes her nervous to get close to me.
We are often attracted to those with whom we share common bonds. It seems to me that you like her because you’re the same, but that she also possesses a lot of qualities that you wish to possess yourself. You wish to learn from her.
You make me out to be so selfish Father.
That’s not it at all. You wish to better yourself, so that in turn you can be better for her. You’re trying to be apart of her world, it’s only natural that you would want to fit in.
That’s hardly reassuring. So now what?
Give her time. It sounds like you two have something special going on here. It would be a shame not to put yourself into it, not to give it a fair shot. Wait for her, she’ll figure herself out.
Yea, thanks Father, that’s what she said.
She sounds like a smart woman.
Girl troubles Father, girl troubles.
So tell me my son, what are your troubles?
Fuck me Father, where do I start.
Well my son, you said you had girl problems, what are the roots of yours problems?
Troubles Father, I have Troubles, that’s a different story than problems.
You’re right my son, tell me of your troubles.
I’ll tell them to you Father, let’s sort this out together. Fuck me, I haven’t been to confession in ten years, but I can’t sort this out on my own, what can you do for me?
I can show you what you already know. I can lift the veil of confusion.
Father forgive me, but you have to understand my skepticism. I haven’t been to the church in ten years, but Father, I have read the newspapers in the interim. I understand about things, and about sins that the church has committed, but Father, I don’t condemn you, if your conscious is clear, that’s good enough for me.
Go ahead my Son.
Well Father, like I said, girl troubles. You see, I’m in love. Enamored, I have this crush. And it leaves me at a loss.
Some would say that this isn’t a trouble at all, more of a joyous occasion.
Not me Father. Don’t get me wrong, I love women, I love the way they smell and the way they smile, but I love women Father, plural. And it fits my lifestyle. I don’t know that I have the time or the patience, my lifestyle dictates a certain amount of discretion, and it’s just easier not to get too attached to a single broad.
What lifestyle is that my son, that your life would not be improved by the love of a good woman?
Let’s not get too deep here Father, the lifestyle isn’t what bothers me, it’s this love thing. I deal with a lot of unsavory characters, I tend to keep odd hours, I may not be the most…respectable of people. Let’s say this love thing did go somewhere, I’d be worried to meet her parents, I’m not the guy that parents would normally choose for their daughter to bring home.
Are you a criminal of some sort?
Not exactly, I just know a lot of people. I’ve kind of been on the edge of everything. And it is something I’m working on Father, I’ve done some moving around, and I’ve seen a lot of things, and I think I’m ready to become a respectable person, a grown up, if you will Father. But I’m not there yet. I’ve got a decent job, it’s a tough job, but the pay is decent, I live in a respectable place, and I have wonderful friends. I don’t keep in contact with those old friends, the ones that kept me on the edge of things, I’ve found writing Father, it helps for me to have a creative outlet, and I’m even fairly decent at it. But I’m sort of new to this respectable life. I like it, in fact it’s wonderful but its also unfamiliar. And what’s worse, this is the type of girl that a guy dreams about. I’m worried Father, that this is too good of a thing to pass up.
What is it that draws you to her?
Oh man Father, where do I start? She’s beautiful, and that’s initially what caught my eye. She’s a good friend of a good friend, so her references check out, I’ve had problems with dating shady girls in the past, so this is important to me now. Maybe she was too good to start, because all my boys had their eyes on her too. And I deferred, even after I heard that she wanted to get to know me better.
Why?
It’s cliché, but I honestly thought she was out of my league. It was a lot of easier to defer to my boys and let them take their shot.
On the one hand, it was good of you to respect your friends, on the other you come off as cowardly, my son.
Ho! No need to break my balls here Father, I know what I did. It wasn’t easy, but a large part of me was hoping that this girl and one of my friends would hit it off fantastically. Look at it this way, at the time, I didn’t even know her, I had just broken off a fairly unhealthy relationship and what’s more, I like to see my friends happy.
Justify it as you may, but I think if you look inside yourself, you’ll find that you were more scared than anything. Scared of this grown up life you’re trying to create, and how it all fits together. But go on, how do things play out with this girl? And you haven’t really answered my earlier question of what draws you to her.
Interesting. As for what draws me to her, that’s a bit more complicated. I like her because she’s strong, she’s independent with a touch of a stubborn streak. She’s so smart, and she’s done the school to job thing so well. I like her because she’s a professional, but she can still procrastinate. I like her because she likes music, even though it’s definitely different from most of the music I like. I like her because she likes to cuddle, and how her room smells, and how she holds onto me so tightly when she’s asleep. I like her because she likes me back.
This all sounds wonderful my son, where do the troubles come into play? Because unless you have a distorted view of her, it sounds like she likes you, and if she does then she’s going to accept you for who you are. This doesn’t sound like much trouble at all.
That’s just it Father, I don’t know. We have our days where everything seems so wonderful, and then a day later she seems to reject me. She is so busy, and so am I, but in different respects. Sometimes it’s hard to see each other. And it seems like if we can manage to get some quality time together, the next day she makes up for it by rejecting me. Sometimes we hang out in big groups, and she hardly acknowledges me. And then other times when we’re together, she makes me feel like the most special person in the world. It baffles me Father. The uncertainty hurts me. And what’s worse, I don’t usually open myself up to other people, I’m private and independent and stubborn too. I’ve been hurt pretty badly and so it’s a lot easier to keep things to myself, to stay guarded, to not get too close, not let anyone in. As consequence, I’m not used to this sort of thing. Though I don’t know for certain, I suspect she’s been hurt pretty badly too, and it makes her nervous to get close to me.
We are often attracted to those with whom we share common bonds. It seems to me that you like her because you’re the same, but that she also possesses a lot of qualities that you wish to possess yourself. You wish to learn from her.
You make me out to be so selfish Father.
That’s not it at all. You wish to better yourself, so that in turn you can be better for her. You’re trying to be apart of her world, it’s only natural that you would want to fit in.
That’s hardly reassuring. So now what?
Give her time. It sounds like you two have something special going on here. It would be a shame not to put yourself into it, not to give it a fair shot. Wait for her, she’ll figure herself out.
Yea, thanks Father, that’s what she said.
She sounds like a smart woman.
Sunday, January 07, 2007
Christmas Sweaters
Eric and Liv have snuck outside to enjoy a smoke break. Christmas lights adorn the roof of their parents’ house and the wholesome sound of music and laughter can be heard inside. Eric is in his late forties. His sister Liv is in her early forties.
Eric: Want to try a menthol? I roll my own now.
Liv: Sure. I used to smoke Salems.
Eric: Me too.
Liv: I know. I used to steal yours when we were kids.
Eric: I guess I knew that. Cheaper to roll your own nowadays, though.
Liv: Doesn’t Mom smoke anymore?
Eric: Nope. She quit. Gave it up three years ago, I think.
Liv: Funny. I can’t keep up with this stuff when we only see each other once a year.
Eric: Yeah. It’s a nice Christmas party, though.
Liv: Yeah. I’m getting a kick out of Dad’s reindeer sweater. I can’t believe she got him to wear that.
Eric: You and Don still together?
Liv: No. Not for a long time. Are you still seeing Madeline?
Eric: It’s almost ten years, now.
Liv: Serious? Ten years?
Eric: Yep. Ten years and three abortions.
Liv: Ouch. That’s hard.
Eric: Yep. Good thing, though. I’m too old for that now. And they would have had weird defects, you know, extra arms and stuff like that.
Liv: What?
Eric: Yep. Madeline’s a crack whore. She doesn’t need to have crack babies around.
Liv: Oh. Really? A crack whore?
Eric: Yeah. I pay her for sex. We have sex. I give her cash. She goes out and buys crack. It works, though. It’s more fun that way. There are no expectations. Better than being married.
Liv: Oh. Sure. No reindeer sweaters, I suppose.
Eric: Yep. It’s the anticipation, too.
Liv: So. Three abortions? They’re…So, she’s…Would you say that you’re monogamous?
Eric: Yep. At least, I think so. Want to be careful, you know. Don’t want to spread anything around. Of course, spreading things around isn’t as bad as catching something.
Liv: But three abortions?
Eric: Yeah. Condom broke. My fault – we rushed and she wasn’t completely lubricated.
Liv: Oh. Well. I guess we don’t need to go into too much detail. Ten years is a long time. I’d like to meet Madeline sometime.
Eric: Well, I can’t really bring her to the Christmas parties. What with the kids and Mom and all.
Liv: No. Some other time then?
Eric: Sure. My place is a mess, though. We’d have to meet at a restaurant or something.
Liv: Ok.
Eric: Just don’t call her a crack whore to her face. She wouldn’t like that.
Liv: Yeah, well. I guess we should get in, huh? They’ll want to start opening presents, I suppose.
Eric: Want to try a menthol? I roll my own now.
Liv: Sure. I used to smoke Salems.
Eric: Me too.
Liv: I know. I used to steal yours when we were kids.
Eric: I guess I knew that. Cheaper to roll your own nowadays, though.
Liv: Doesn’t Mom smoke anymore?
Eric: Nope. She quit. Gave it up three years ago, I think.
Liv: Funny. I can’t keep up with this stuff when we only see each other once a year.
Eric: Yeah. It’s a nice Christmas party, though.
Liv: Yeah. I’m getting a kick out of Dad’s reindeer sweater. I can’t believe she got him to wear that.
Eric: You and Don still together?
Liv: No. Not for a long time. Are you still seeing Madeline?
Eric: It’s almost ten years, now.
Liv: Serious? Ten years?
Eric: Yep. Ten years and three abortions.
Liv: Ouch. That’s hard.
Eric: Yep. Good thing, though. I’m too old for that now. And they would have had weird defects, you know, extra arms and stuff like that.
Liv: What?
Eric: Yep. Madeline’s a crack whore. She doesn’t need to have crack babies around.
Liv: Oh. Really? A crack whore?
Eric: Yeah. I pay her for sex. We have sex. I give her cash. She goes out and buys crack. It works, though. It’s more fun that way. There are no expectations. Better than being married.
Liv: Oh. Sure. No reindeer sweaters, I suppose.
Eric: Yep. It’s the anticipation, too.
Liv: So. Three abortions? They’re…So, she’s…Would you say that you’re monogamous?
Eric: Yep. At least, I think so. Want to be careful, you know. Don’t want to spread anything around. Of course, spreading things around isn’t as bad as catching something.
Liv: But three abortions?
Eric: Yeah. Condom broke. My fault – we rushed and she wasn’t completely lubricated.
Liv: Oh. Well. I guess we don’t need to go into too much detail. Ten years is a long time. I’d like to meet Madeline sometime.
Eric: Well, I can’t really bring her to the Christmas parties. What with the kids and Mom and all.
Liv: No. Some other time then?
Eric: Sure. My place is a mess, though. We’d have to meet at a restaurant or something.
Liv: Ok.
Eric: Just don’t call her a crack whore to her face. She wouldn’t like that.
Liv: Yeah, well. I guess we should get in, huh? They’ll want to start opening presents, I suppose.
Saturday, January 06, 2007
Playing the Spoons
I make the superintendent open the door on Christmas. Derek has been missing for several days, neglecting to show up at parties with shrimp cocktail and artichoke dip. He missed the kid’s holiday concert. I just plainly missed him.
Last Monday was the last time I saw him. We ate cheap ice cream in his new apartment. He only had one bowl and two spoons. He scooped the fluffy pink and green ice cream into the bowl for me and onto the lid of the container for him.
“For experienced ice cream addicts,” he said pointing to his makeshift bowl.
“Don’t eat it all,” I playfully said. “I plan on coming by this weekend to finish it, Mr. Addict.”
I lit a cigarette with my final match and took bites between drags. “Where’s the ashtray?” I asked.
“Oh… you’re eating out of it. I washed it though,” he responded with perfect timing like we were in some Laurel and Hardy routine.
We listened to Johnny Cash and Nick Cave. Derek picked up his old Silvertone and played me a new song with no lyrics. His upright bass was standing in the corner. His new place had no rugs, only beige tiles with a few squares of blue haphazardly thrown in. It used to be a nursing home but now it was an apartment building for people with disabilities. The walls were toothpaste white. He had a single bed tucked in behind the bathroom door. Balled up in the corner was a tiny blue throw that shed bits of lint. I wondered how he stayed warm at night, but he liked to sleep in his wool overcoat, and the apartment air burned hot from skinny radiators nestled into the baseboards. This was his first place since we broke up last year. His first place that wasn’t under lock and key or supervised by nurses who watched him swallow his psych meds in paper cups. He finally had his own stove, which he used to light my cigarette.
“I hate electric stoves!” he said as he jammed the end of my cigarette onto the screaming red coil. It took forever to light, but he was patient despite the tremor in his hands. He wore a new western shirt, black with silver embroidery. It was the most elaborate in his collection, swirling figure eights melding into flowers with pearly buttons. His hair was shaggy, hanging awkwardly over his the rim of his square glasses.
On Christmas I wait as the Super takes the sluggish elevator to apartment 216. I wait in the lobby on a scratchy plaid chair. I had tried to visit Derek all weekend, looking up towards his window when he wouldn’t answer his door. All the other residents were jealous because he had a corner apartment with perfect sun, though he complained about the constant whir of the elevator. I saw that he had put up new chiffon curtains and houseplants lined the window sill, soaking up the highly coveted winter sun.
I wait on the stiff chairs, looking at the lobby phone that makes only outgoing calls. It looks like an old office phone, all beige and dingy with blackened marks from the countless residents who grip its plastic neck. The curly cord trails down like a tendril, brushing the red, thinning lobby carpet. I could see Derek sitting in this same spot, talking to me while his nervous foot kicked the cord, watching it swing back and forth. He was waiting for some money to get a cell phone so people could get in touch with him. I wanted to get in touch with him. It was Christmas, and he never came for the free coffee or crappy cookies.
In between the entry doors, the Super coaxes me in as residents funnel in and out with packages, sodas, and cigarettes.
“I’m sorry. He has passed,” he says as he stares at the entry rug covered with slush and sand. The whirlwind of time makes no sense, filling the following minutes with flashing blue lights and an incoherent phone call to his mother smothered in sobs. I hear the Super on the phone saying that he was sure Derek was dead. “He is green,” he tries to whisper to the police. I can hear my heart pounding in my head, saying no, saying that I just saw him, saying that he promised to leave some ice cream for me. I hear the blue and the red of the ambulance lights and the footsteps of paramedics with heavy black bags. The whir of the elevator. The gray gurney with squeaky wheels. The voices of the cops called out on Christmas asking me what happened, do I know what happened.
The cops find needles in his apartment. They find heroin. They find a tourniquet. They find only one of Derek’s two spoons lying next to his lifeless body all crumpled up on his new area rug he bought at Ikea. The other spoon is shining and polished, standing upright in the dish drainer, waiting for me like he promised.
Last Monday was the last time I saw him. We ate cheap ice cream in his new apartment. He only had one bowl and two spoons. He scooped the fluffy pink and green ice cream into the bowl for me and onto the lid of the container for him.
“For experienced ice cream addicts,” he said pointing to his makeshift bowl.
“Don’t eat it all,” I playfully said. “I plan on coming by this weekend to finish it, Mr. Addict.”
I lit a cigarette with my final match and took bites between drags. “Where’s the ashtray?” I asked.
“Oh… you’re eating out of it. I washed it though,” he responded with perfect timing like we were in some Laurel and Hardy routine.
We listened to Johnny Cash and Nick Cave. Derek picked up his old Silvertone and played me a new song with no lyrics. His upright bass was standing in the corner. His new place had no rugs, only beige tiles with a few squares of blue haphazardly thrown in. It used to be a nursing home but now it was an apartment building for people with disabilities. The walls were toothpaste white. He had a single bed tucked in behind the bathroom door. Balled up in the corner was a tiny blue throw that shed bits of lint. I wondered how he stayed warm at night, but he liked to sleep in his wool overcoat, and the apartment air burned hot from skinny radiators nestled into the baseboards. This was his first place since we broke up last year. His first place that wasn’t under lock and key or supervised by nurses who watched him swallow his psych meds in paper cups. He finally had his own stove, which he used to light my cigarette.
“I hate electric stoves!” he said as he jammed the end of my cigarette onto the screaming red coil. It took forever to light, but he was patient despite the tremor in his hands. He wore a new western shirt, black with silver embroidery. It was the most elaborate in his collection, swirling figure eights melding into flowers with pearly buttons. His hair was shaggy, hanging awkwardly over his the rim of his square glasses.
On Christmas I wait as the Super takes the sluggish elevator to apartment 216. I wait in the lobby on a scratchy plaid chair. I had tried to visit Derek all weekend, looking up towards his window when he wouldn’t answer his door. All the other residents were jealous because he had a corner apartment with perfect sun, though he complained about the constant whir of the elevator. I saw that he had put up new chiffon curtains and houseplants lined the window sill, soaking up the highly coveted winter sun.
I wait on the stiff chairs, looking at the lobby phone that makes only outgoing calls. It looks like an old office phone, all beige and dingy with blackened marks from the countless residents who grip its plastic neck. The curly cord trails down like a tendril, brushing the red, thinning lobby carpet. I could see Derek sitting in this same spot, talking to me while his nervous foot kicked the cord, watching it swing back and forth. He was waiting for some money to get a cell phone so people could get in touch with him. I wanted to get in touch with him. It was Christmas, and he never came for the free coffee or crappy cookies.
In between the entry doors, the Super coaxes me in as residents funnel in and out with packages, sodas, and cigarettes.
“I’m sorry. He has passed,” he says as he stares at the entry rug covered with slush and sand. The whirlwind of time makes no sense, filling the following minutes with flashing blue lights and an incoherent phone call to his mother smothered in sobs. I hear the Super on the phone saying that he was sure Derek was dead. “He is green,” he tries to whisper to the police. I can hear my heart pounding in my head, saying no, saying that I just saw him, saying that he promised to leave some ice cream for me. I hear the blue and the red of the ambulance lights and the footsteps of paramedics with heavy black bags. The whir of the elevator. The gray gurney with squeaky wheels. The voices of the cops called out on Christmas asking me what happened, do I know what happened.
The cops find needles in his apartment. They find heroin. They find a tourniquet. They find only one of Derek’s two spoons lying next to his lifeless body all crumpled up on his new area rug he bought at Ikea. The other spoon is shining and polished, standing upright in the dish drainer, waiting for me like he promised.
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