by Ian Mark
“Brian Lewis!” Brian shouted at the bouncer, a more appropriately sized, for such a position, white man with a bald spot and bad teeth. He checked the list and nodded, but when Brian attempted to pass, put a hand on his chest.
“VIP’s ABC.” He gestured at the girls. Anything But Clothes. Oh well.
“It’s fine!” I pulled Brian away from the VIP area. We started dancing. After about two seconds, two tall brunettes approached. Brian grabbed one. The other eyed me. I smiled, and danced. She tried to grind with me. I resisted. Brian spotted two floaters at a nearby table (the only table in sight in the whole place) and drained one. He gave me the other. I drank it. What the hell, I figured, Dancing never hurt anyone. I grabbed the girl and she squealed with delight.
We danced the night away. Occasionally Brian would head off to the bathroom. He would shoot me a glance each time but I’d shake my head. I didn’t use much, so I didn’t need nearly as much to feel amazing as Brian did. I explained to each girl I danced with that my girlfriend was meeting me there, and suggested they speak with my more-handsome friend when he returned from the bathroom. At first, most took me up on the offer, and Brian danced and hooked up with several girls. I lived vicariously, and was enjoying myself. As the night went on, Brian looked more and more deranged. His nostrils were more and more red, his hair was a mess, and he had undone his shirt all the way down to the last button. While he wasn’t the worst there, the girls I turned down no longer agreed with my assessment of our attractiveness.
Around 2:00 or so, I suggested to Brian that we call it a night. He weakly said sure, and we left. He put his arm around me as we traversed the wooden dance floor for the last time. The crowd had thinned, but the place was still packed. Pairs of men and women were leaving in a steady stream out the door, and pairs of men and pairs of women were also exiting. As this was Brooklyn, the pairs of men were the handsiest with each other.
“I love you, man.” He was slurring his words pretty badly. I started to worry a little.
“I love you too, bud. Are you okay?” His eyes were half-open. I shook him.
“Yeah, I’m fine, let’s just go home.” We took the elevator down into the subway. I swiped for both of us. A group of fellow ravers looked at us. I smiled. One of the girls was leaning against the wall. She had dim blue eyes and looked sick. Her friend was talking to her in a quiet voice. We exchanged empathetic looks.
The train came. Brian and I walked as one into the last car. We sat down. Sitting seemed to do him some good. He had perked up by the time we got to 8th St. Station. He wanted to get some halal food. I convinced him to wait. Or I thought I did. As we exited, he ran ahead to the nearest cart and ordered lamb and rice.
“You like workin’ here?” He attempted to engage the Middle-Eastern man making his food. The guy wanted none of it, but felt obligated to respond.
“ ‘s OK.” The meat sizzled as it cooked.
“How long you in here for?” Brian stood obnoxiously close to the cart, his nose peering over the window at the food.
“It’s not prison, Brian.” I tried to get him to take a step back.
“I mean, how long are your shifts?” Brian took out his wallet.
“8 hours or so, depending on the night.” The man scooped yellow rice into a Styrofoam container. He had a bushy mustache and a dark mark on his right temple. He looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks. “You want sauce?”
All of a sudden, Brian looked worse. “White sauce.” I spoke for Brian. I stepped forward and he put his arm around me again. I took Brian’s wallet and opened it. It was empty. Sighing, I took out my wallet and paid the man. He eyed Brian.
“He okay?”
“He’s fine. Just give me that.” That was good enough for him. He had no desire to get involved. No one in this city ever did. He handed over the food. We stumbled the few blocks back to Brian’s apartment.
Brian insisted on taking the stairs when we got back. I didn’t mind, I felt recharged. I had stolen a few bites of lamb on the way. Well, not really stolen, considering I paid for it. We ran up the six flights to his apartment. Brian was way ahead of me.
When I got to the top, Brian was heading down. I stopped him with a hand. “Where are you going?”
Panting, he responded, “I dropped my keys, I think. A few flights down, I’ll be back in a bit.” I sat on the top stair and took at the halal. I had eaten half of it by the time he came back. Sweat poured down his face. “Got ‘em.” He opened the door and let me in first.
I was always surprised at how clean Brian kept things, especially in comparison to me. But at times like this I appreciated it. I sat down on the couch. Brian turned on the TV. We watched some shitty movie on Comedy Central in silence. Brian seemed to be coming down. He gave one word answers to any questions I asked. He took the halal and finished it in about thirty seconds.
I got up and went to the bathroom. It was a complete mess. The mirror was completely broken. Blood was all over the sink and tiled floor. A sign with illustrations depicting the proper use of a toilet seat that normally hung above the toilet was in the shower. The shower curtain had been pulled off the rings, presumably as Brian tried to stop himself from falling over. What was he doing in here? I peed and washed my hands. I watched myself in the broken mirror. Bits and pieces of my face and hands were visible in the remaining shards of glass. I looked okay, I decided. Better than Brian, anyway.
When I came back, Brian was asleep. He was slumped in a weird position. I felt his head to make sure he was okay. He wasn’t breathing. I freaked out. I started running around the room looking for a phone, but he didn’t have a phone and I didn’t know what to do and I was going to yell out the window for an ambulance when I remembered I had a cell phone. I took it out and dialed 922, cursed, and dialed 911.
“911, what is your emergency?” The deep voice surprised me. In the movies, it’s always a woman answering. I explained that my friend had OD’d and I needed an ambulance. I became strangely calm. I answered all their questions, but I wasn’t there. I watched from above as I set him as they described, and put the pillow where I was told. I noticed the half-line of coke that he had while I was in the bathroom and couldn’t finish. I saw the next few hours playing out: the desperate journey to the hospital, the waiting and waiting, Amanda meeting me at the hospital, the stern looking doctor in blue scrubs coming out and explaining to us while scratching his beard and shaking his head that he hadn’t made it.
And that’s what happened. I re-watched it like a movie as I sat alone in my apartment. I did the only thing that made sense at the time. I called my mother. She didn’t answer. I thought of how Brian died alone. I called my mother again. She picked up.
“You better have a damn good reason for waking us up at this hour.”
“I’ll meet her.”
“What?” She was confused. Her voice was groggy and irritated.
“I’ll meet that girl. The one you told me about.”
“Zoey?” I stood up and began pacing.
“Yeah, I think. The one you said would be perfect for me. I’ll meet her.”
“Great, outstanding. I’m so glad you called me to tell me that.”
“So what’s her number?”
“You want me to get out of bed and track down the number of a girl I offered to get for you a few days ago and you blew me off?”
“Please, Mom?”
“I’ll text you in the morning. Calling her now would ruin any chance you have. I love you.”
“I love you too, Mom.”
She hung up without commenting on my deviation from our normal goodbye. I wiped my eyes. I suddenly realized I was absolutely exhausted. I fell asleep in my chair completely dressed.
Chapter 5
Amanda pulls me on top of her. We’re naked and going at it like rabbits. She tells me how glad she is to have me back. I cover her mouth with my hand. She pushes it off and keeps talking. She says how even though I’m not great in bed she loves me anyways. I cove
r my ears with my hands. My mother walks into the room. I try to pull away, but Amanda wraps her legs around my back and pulls me closer. I look at my mother. Amanda starts moaning and shrieking. My mother tells me she’s faking. Edward, her new husband, walks in wearing a Speedo. I’m repulsed by his gray and black chest hair. His pecs wrinkle as he puts his arm around my mother. Amanda screams louder. “Brian!” She screams the name of my dead best friend and looks me in the eyes. My father walks in. His skin has started to rot. I can see his thigh bones as he walks. They are pearly white. His face is decomposing. He looks at me with dead eyes. He tells me I’m doing it wrong. Edward walks over and smacks my dad. He crumbles, literally crumbles. A pile of bones and dust are left in his place. Amanda finishes. She releases me. I try to run out, but there are no doors. They all laugh at me.
* * *
I woke up in a cold sweat. The bright orange lights beneath the TV read 12:32. Shit. I was meeting Amanda at 1. I showered quickly, with no time to enjoy the feel of the hot water rushing over me. I toweled off and looked in the mirror. My hair was sticking up. It wouldn’t stay down no matter how many different ways I smoothed it over. I resolved to get a haircut after lunch, provided I wasn’t having make-up sex all day. I also noticed a small zit was appearing in between my eyebrows. I pushed it. It got redder. Goddammit. I ran out of the bathroom to my closet. I put on a pair of khaki pants and a white button-down. I put on my peacoat even though it wasn’t that cold because I didn’t want to show up wearing a hoodie. I guess I suspected part of the reason she dumped me was because I looked like a slob so often. Though it probably had more to do with me being an asshole. I remembered that I dumped her. That helped. I felt better.
I saw Mrs. Johnson as I left. She was walking Jefferson as if he were a dog. She had a bright red leash tied around his neck and he was sitting there, just looking at her. He seemed to find the idea of walking for the sake of walking ridiculous. I agreed.
“Zach, where are you rushing off to?” She examined her nails. The polish was chipped and old.
“I don’t have time to explain, I’m late.” I rushed past her.
“Wait.” She was nonplussed. “You buttoned your shirt wrong.” I looked down, she was right.
“Thanks,” I said to her. “You are a fucking moron who will die alone,” I said to me. I ran off, unfastening and refastening as I did so. The restaurant was just far enough that it was faster to walk than take the subway, but was still a long walk. I cut through Washington Square Park. “You want some bud man?” A tall black guy said in my general direction. I shook my head and pushed past him. The park was remarkably crowded for March, but it was a Sunday. A few street performers were loudly describing the great trick they were about to perform. A crowd had gathered around the fountain to watch. But first, they were going to come around for donations.
I walked around all of these people and the arch caught my eye. A bunch of caution tape was up around a part of its base. I figured that had something to do with the piece that had fallen off a few days ago. No one had been hurt. I imagined being killed by a piece falling off the arch. All the energy, all the work of so many people that had gone into making me who I was would have been for naught. I wouldn’t have died for some noble cause. No one would remember me for anything other than my bizarre cause of death, and even that wouldn’t last. Killed by a statue, they would say. Eventually it would just become another fun fact about one of the many tourist attractions in this tourist trap of a city. As I passed the old men challenging anyone and everyone to a game of chess, I wondered who would miss me. My mother, sure, but she didn’t count. Amanda, maybe. Kevin, probably. The rest of my friends at least for awhile. But then I’d just be like Brian. We’d probably be clumped together. Both our deaths, and by association our lives, would become one event, that they would reflect on when the right combination of alcohol and weed made them nostalgic.
I checked my phone for the time. I had ten minutes to get to the diner. I needed to stop depressing myself. I had to appear happy, okay without Amanda. I bought a cup of coffee. I drank as quickly as its temperature would allow as I made my way up West 4th.
Amanda was already seated when I came in. I walked past the hostess and made my way to her table. She stood up when she saw me. She looked great. She was wearing a conservative blouse and jeans, but even so it was obvious how pretty she was. She half-smiled when she saw me. The moment of truth arrived-- how would we greet each other? Certainly not a kiss, but a handshake would be awkward and weird. She hugged me, gently wrapping her arms around my neck. She held her sleeves with her hands while she did. I put one arm around her waist and leaned in, trying to be even more casual than she was.
“Thanks for coming.” She sat down and picked up the menu.
“No problem. I am so sorry I’m late.” I sat down opposite her. A waitress came over. Her hair was pulled tightly back into a neat bun. She looked bored.
“You guys want to start off with something to drink?”
Amanda pointed to the menu. “I’ll have orange juice.” She looked at me. I realized my eyes had drifted downwards on the waitress. I did my best to cover by reading her name-tag.
“Yes… Rebecca, I’ll have a … tea, if you have it.” I looked from her to the menu to her to Amanda.
“How do you want that?” Neither of them noticed how hyper I was.
“Sorry?” She put her hand that was holding her notepad on her hip and looked down at me.
“Sugar, lemon…”
“Oh, right. Nothing, please.” She wrote something down, probably a note to stay away from our table as much as possible, and walked off. I looked around. Sports paraphernalia, most of it Jets-related, covered the walls. I shuddered, I hated the Jets. Amanda had sat facing the door, presumably so she could clock exactly how late I was. I checked my phone. I wasn’t even late. I was unnerved, I liked to sit facing the door. There weren’t too many other diners in the restaurant. Still, there were enough restauranteurs in the diner that it would be awkward if we fought.
“So how are you?” She apparently was sick of the silence. I refocused on her, making sure to meet her eyes. The choice of blouse helped. Still, I knew exactly what she looked like naked, so I could see her naked whenever I wanted to if I felt like it. It was a sort of intoxicating power, knowing someone so intimately that whatever shield or facade they put on you could cut right through.
“I’m doing well. Yourself?” I opened the menu as nonchalantly as possible. The last thing I wanted was for her to think I was chalant. That would end any chance we had of getting back together.
“Riiight. I’m okay.” She kept looking at me looking at the menu. She tapped her foot.
“Good. Have you been here before? I don’t know what to get.” Wrong question. She leaned forward and opened her mouth, then closed it. She wanted to yell. But she was raised a good girl, and she knew always to act like a lady in public. So she settled herself. When she spoke, it was in the loudest, angriest whisper I had ever heard.
“You don’t get to come in here and make…. Fucking small talk, okay? You owe me an apology. I didn’t want that night to be the last time we ever spent together.”
I looked at her, my face neutral. She leaned back.
“I’m sorry,” I said. I meant it too. “You’re right. We were good friends long before we ever started dating, it would be a shame if we had to stop seeing each other just because you won’t marry me.”
“You really think we broke up because of that proposal?” She leaned back in. Her condescension irritated me. I smiled at her.
“No, I broke up with you because of your snoring.” Body blow. She almost recoiled.
“I’ll ignore that. We both know I broke up with you. You want to know why? Because you fucking hate yourself. You haven’t forgiven yourself for Brian’s death, you think it was your fault. You’re terrified you’ll end up alone, when two months ago you would have laughed at the idea of marrying me, or anyone. But now you’re terrifie
d at the idea of having only yourself to talk to, because you hate everything you think. So you drug yourself to avoid thinking. We broke up because I can’t do that anymore. I can’t ever love you when you hate yourself so much. And no one can.” She leaned back. She was out of breath.
I leaned in. “You know what? You--” Rebecca was back. I stopped talking and smiled pleasantly up at her and her magnificent tits.
“Are you ready to order?” She placed our drinks on the table and took her notepad out.
“I’ll have a burger and fries, and she’ll have a salad.” Rebecca’s eyebrows raised at my ordering for Amanda, and Amanda seethed but said nothing. She scrawled our orders down and walked away. I grinned malevolently at Amanda. “I’ve always wanted to do that. And now I can. We’re such cliches, I thought it was fitting. Because you’re right, I do blame myself for Brian’s death. And you can tell yourself all that crap about being unable to love me because of me and all that, but we both know that’s utter bullshit. Let me tell you why you can’t love me.” The people at the table next to us looked over. I leaned back and gripped the metal chair to calm down. Amanda waited.
“You can’t love me because you blame me, Amanda. You think I should have cut him off, should have realized what happened and gotten him to a hospital sooner. You will never love me because of that. And I can’t say I blame you. I wish every day that he was still here, that I had done something differently.” I stood up and dropped my napkin on the table. I was done. I had verbalized a feeling that had bothered me since Wednesday. I had figured out what happened to us. A weight lifted off of me. Not the big one, but one of the smaller ones. Amanda was crying. I didn’t care anymore. I threw two twenties on the table. “Enjoy your meal. I hope someday we can be friends. I really mean that. You were a wonderful part of my life for a long time.” I turned away. So much for not making a scene. Every pair of eyes in the place followed me except Lou’s, the blind chef.