Jason Kelley

don’t fight it, just keep breathing

[thinkingaboutsanfrancisco]

All eyes on me. 

One set all too familiar. Black holes, vast and infinite in both desperation and greed. Despite both of those attributes being to my benefit out here, the latter gets to me occasionally because bro. I haven’t even ashed this cigarette and you already have a clamoring for more? Can you give it the chance to enter your bloodstream first? If only to ease the fragile sake of my ethics? 

Clearly not. Morality can wait until I’m on the train. If he wants to ski head first, so fucking be it. The sooner I can unload this, the better. 

The other set is steady…I won’t dare say sober, but S’ stare isn’t intimidating. It should be, I’ve never been watched in such close proximity during a deal, but considering how unfamiliar the ground has been tonight...I feel more comfortable than I would’ve been if I were here by myself. 

Comfortable enough to turn up the dial. 

Such immediacy means one of two things, either dude really can pay to play or he wants a handout. I’ll get something from each. I’m hoping for cash, but I’ll take a laugh. Lord knows, I need one. 

“I could.” I tell him, sliding the eighth out of my pocket and onto my leg. “And if you got $200, I will.” 

I didn’t even think his eyes could get any wider, but they do. “Oh shit,” he says, but this surprise doesn’t last. It’s not a long calculation to make that this is the investment to make for his night. The wallet’s out and he’s counting the bills out of it like a customer of anything else. 

Four fifties fanned out in front of me. 

Grants and Benjamins will never stop catching my eye. They were a rare sight for the longest time. It’s amazing how scarce they are in the world of necessity, legally they barely amount to a day’s pay for me and I won’t even see it for another two weeks when the meager amount unceremoniously deposits into my bank account. They are abundant when you’re in a business of pleasure. Natalia pays primarily with them, watching the bills land even remotely close to her platform shoe onstage is worth the price alone to her customers. They have no idea that they’re ultimately paying for a place in my wallet, and I highly doubt they’d give a fuck. All apart of overhead in her world. 

I take them, slip them in my shirt pocket for now, and then hand him his product. He lets me do that, shockingly, but I appreciate that he has some resemblance of manners. I hate when they get all grabby.

“Thanks,” he says, sliding it into his own jeans before wiping his nose. “See you around.” 

You sure will.

[thinkingaboutsanfrancisco]

“The fuck are you laughing at?”

My head snaps back in S’ direction, as if a glare alone will pull him out of this atrocious break. 

Yeah, man, why don’t you share with the class? What is it that’s so amusing? What is so fucking funny? Tell us, ‘cause I’m having a hard time locating humor in the middle of my sale being ruined. It damn well isn’t me. Better not be me, you drunken buffoon. 

I thought you understood. 

The total fold in his expression suggests that the lack was only a momentary lapse. S’ eyes become wide and all attentive, darting frantically between me and this guy in search of a way to simmer us down and salvage our sale…

It doesn’t surprise me how soon he finds it, I’m sure he’s seen it so often that it’s easy to adapt and morph into his role. His smile isn’t as wild and frenzied as mine, its tethered tense in an even more unsettling way as moves his jaw and he gnashes his teeth—that same little motion that they’re so numb and twitchy to be able to do. It’s too accurate. 

Good God…your eyes look so weird like that. 

S repeats their favorite lie to him too: nothing. That’s what it always is…nothing can ever be wrong, if, by their delusional definition, nothing is happening. This time it’s actually not too much of a stretch from the truth, since nothing sinister is, anyway. We aren’t here to settle the score, we’re trying to get him to score and, in that, we are brewing something. Something he’ll like...

Just let yourself buy it.

[thinkingaboutsanfrancisco]

He follows suit anyway, drawing my head back down out of the smoke by gently knocking his knuckles against my chest until his hand flips over and uncurls into an open, expectant, palm.

Oh alright.

“They aren’t the sugar kind, y’know,” I place one and my blue Bic in my friend’s hand with a tease; the small tax for the hypocrisy for bumming one off of me after giving me grief about how much of a kid I am. He knows it, sharing my smirk before sticking the cigarette in his mouth, flicking the lighter with almost the same amount of force that I did, except he strikes on the first try.

Watching him inhale from the recessed white filter instead of the standard speckled orange one, it dawns on me that he’s never tried my Parliaments before. He’s never even asked and he’s known me for what? Two months? Most people I encounter don’t know me for two seconds before getting to borrow one…

I’d praise him on the record, but I’m more intrigued to know his impression of them now that he’s obtained one. Smokers are by nature a particular breed and these are quite different from his brand. Better, but I’m biased. I have spoiled myself beyond rotten with these. Everything else is too damn strong. I like a practically tasteless, smooth smoke that soothes and cradles my throat and lungs instead of scorching them like Winston Golds did. Those are harsher than hell and the buzz, as powerful as it is, aren’t worth the sickeningly bitter aftertaste that lingered in my mouth — nor the grimy residue that coated my teeth. Listerine couldn’t even fully rinse it.

For someone used to the equivalent of smoking the stale bottom of an ashtray, I’m surprised he isn’t giving me shit about how ‘weak’ these are but I shouldn’t be considering the night he’s had so far…

“I reckon they feel pretty sweet right now…don’t they?”

Not my worst jest, but certainly not one worthy of saying while he was mid-inhale. The smoke gets caught in his throat, making him cough through his laughter, and...I don’t know, man. It’s been a while, he should be settled, but it’ll be well into next week before he can cough without startling me.

“Yeah...no shit…” He manages once it’s out of his throat, punctuating it with a small, grateful smile, maintaining a trace of it through his next drag.

After a moment, our haze is ruined by a brief burst of the music flooding in from outside the open entry door; a squeaky pace of rubber soles walking all over our peace as he makes his way to the creaky stall door not too far down the line.

Ah, what creature of the night roams amongst us now?

Some poor shitfaced and/or sick soul, of course. Quite frankly, I’m not looking forward to the echoes of either fluid, but such is the price that we must pay for picking this place of procrastinating in this place.

Except…I don’t hear shit after the lock clunks. His belt buckle never clinks against the tile, nor is there a zip. The only sign of life is a sniff and it’s pathetic how my pulse speeds up at it. It’s not…it’s not that kind. Dude’s sinuses are just draining. Drinking does that, I guess. There’s nothing exciting about this…there’s fucking not—

Plastic slaps against the seat and Christ, it all becomes as distinct as nails on a chalkboard when he starts scraping a card. Holy fucking shit, he’s got a card…

He’s cutting up.

He isn’t chopping much, which means he doesn’t have much, which means he’s going to run out this early in the night, which means he’ll need to reup, which means…

“There’s your first customer, J.”

S’ observation is followed by that damning, damning sound of screeching desperation as our prospect attempts to accumulate every magical milligram up his nostril to savor his delusional concept of peace of mind. Fortunately, that wait won’t be long. He won’t have to wait at all…not when I’m right here.

As the twist in S’ grin unravels, the tighter mine becomes wound. He doesn’t need to stick a cigarette through his teeth to try and contain the wicked twitch, he doesn’t need to do anything at all but relax. This is my purpose, my priority, my profit…

The daunting void of expectation in how I was thinking he’d look at me is consumed by trust, an amount which almost feels unearned considering he’s never seen me execute. Out of sight out of mind is the key in this business and I never wanted to relinquish it, but having to presents an opportunity that further fuels the fire within me. His investment in me tonight has been considerable and he deserves to see how it pays off, how worthwhile of an asset I can truly be to him.

S lifts himself off of me, giving me a playful push while I scramble to move my ass towards the door. It’s fucking ridiculous, I crack up some at that too, but I’d prefer not to pass out from standing up too fast since getting up properly would take more time than I can currently afford. Shit’s sparse, I can’t allow a second of sobriety to slip where he succumbs to texting his other plug, if he hasn’t already. I can’t destroy his fickle loyalty if I don’t intercept him…

Which I will.

My foot hooks underneath our stall door while he moves the latch back on his, and I swing it back with more force than I honestly needed. It wacks against the wall, the rattling turning our customer’s head and making him take a step back. His eyes bounce between us. We must look strung out; our limbs lazily strewn over this floor and our eyes all wild and wide, sucking the life out of cigarettes we aren’t supposed to be smoking in here…

We’re perfect for the part.

“Damn dude, you almost ripped that fucking thing right off!”

“Sorry,” I exhale, playing up my sinus sniffle and straightening my back up against the door, “I wasn’t trying to scare you…”

[thinkingaboutsanfrancisco]

I’d like to be.

I’d like to be known as someone who doesn’t have to remember to be kind and naturally thinks of other people first without any other selfish ulterior motives — like Ray — yet I’m not that upstanding. I don’t consider that I’m incapable of nice gestures either and I’d rather he had complimented me on doing one instead so I could’ve accepted it and thanked him properly...but he didn’t. He said I’m a really sweet kid...and it’s put some pressure on me because I can’t say that about myself. For one thing, I’d look like a pompous and egocentric brat if I told him that yes, I do regard myself that highly — I don’t deserve to, not for being somewhat sweet sometimes...and even that feels like too much credit. Yet, it’s equally as wrong to reject it and tell him no, I don’t think so at all; undermining his feelings again solely to appease my guilty conscience and throwing him back in the spot that’s even more uncomfortable than this one. I’ve already wiped that tender smile off his face once tonight…

“I... try to be.” I answer, because there’s truth in it. I don’t exactly aim to be sweet, but I do try to be nice. I try to be fair. I try to lend my help if it’s needed.

I still try to be good.

“You’re successful in your attempts, JJ, trust me.”

I wish.

Success is a big word with a chasmic definition to me; where my goodwill impacts something so considerably that it creates a permanent change for the better so I wouldn’t have to keep making efforts, because one alone would be worthy enough. If I were so successful, we’d never have to be on the floor for him to finally figure it out...

I’d never be here at all.

“I’m glad you think so,” I concede to his simpler, more lenient definition, keeping my voice quiet as I do so I don’t have to hear it echo so loud anymore. I’m tired of my mind getting tangled in these choking cords of existentialism like it’s so prone to when…

I need a cigarette.

Goddamn it. I thought I’d shoved that pestering craving down by now but that was some wishful fucking thinking. Doesn’t matter that I’ve gotten too lazy to feel like moving or that this is a swankier bathroom than where I usually sneak my smoke breaks and undeserving of my pollution, it's been ignored enough and I have to satiate its vengeful appetite.

Unclasping my hands, I exhale a deep sigh while I stare at my lap...and the arm that blocks my way. Ending a hug is always an awkward thing to do, and I don’t have the energy to verbalize my weak excuse for why his moment of comfort must come to such an abrupt close.

Except I forgot that he’s a fellow fiend, who senses what I’m reaching for without me having to nudge him with my knuckles; shifting his arm up an inch and granting me full access to dive into my pocket to grab the box. Freeing a precious Parliament from the pack, I stick it in my lip and try to light it as quick as my fucking thumb can flick the sparkwheel— I fumble twice, I’m that impatient.

Then I hear it; the crisp crackling of tucked tobacco leaves scorching under the flame. I yank the lighter away and my finger latches around the cigarette, closing my eyes to concentrate on drawing it deeper into my lungs, keen on filling up that aching void as if it’s been several hours of cold separation instead of hardly one. I turn my head and tilt up towards the ceiling, looking to spare him from choking on my filthy fumes.

[thinkingaboutsanfrancisco]

The weight of his weary head soon rests upon me. His cheekbone feels substantial and awkward against my clavicle, but it’s an improvement over loitering or staring directly into his piteous soul and my mild affliction isn’t in vain; his shoulders loosen up and make his body seem slightly less laden whilst he slackens against my side.

He believes me.

That’s satisfying as it is. It’ll be verbalized eventually, but neither of us are exactly keen to disturb the stillness that’s settled in and alleviated the smothering from the air. We’ve fucking needed this break.

While he uses it to regain his composure, my eyes are kept fixed on the silver door before us, getting a good look at our reflection...or rather the distorted remnants of it. The stainless steel blurs us to where the distinction between our blobby forms are the colors of our clothes and the shades of our pallor; everything is so unclear and I smile wryly at the reflection’s apt reminder.

Whatever will be, will be. The future’s not ours to see, what will be will be...

That silly tune loops in my sleep deprived head until there’s some shifting on my side that pulls me out of it, and, as I look over at him, his head lifts off my shoulder.

Already? Damn, you rebounded quick.

Yet he doesn’t push himself off the floor and my breath hitches at the strange sensation of something slowly snaking around my back — his arm, the other looping around the front of my stomach. His bleary eyes, again blind to how wide mine are, are benevolent; long devoid of the menace that almost got him jabbed by my elbow out in the parking lot. My friend’s not out to embarrass me, if he was past that quota at the bar he’s way beyond it now, but my face burns anyway when he squeezes me tight at my waist.

Oh uh, okay…

I laugh a little at first because being squished feels really weird and funny; this move is definitely brought to me by the remnants of his inebriation, but the surge of warmth is overwhelming and my hesitance is cleansed by this nice rush of fuzziness that floods in through my chest. He comes in peace; this embrace is his simple attempt to extend the olive branch and express how thankful he is to have someone there to cling onto. I pick up my end of it, loosely wrapping my other arm over one of his, letting him know he's welcome by lightly patting it twice.

He ceases squeezing me to death before it gets too cloying, his arms gently laxing in their place around my sides. That gesture spent whatever energy he’d accumulated, because he can’t keep his head even slightly upright anymore. I have to smoothen out the small stutter in my breathing that happens when his cheek starts to slunk down to my ribcage, kept shielded from the remnants of tequila and vomit tainting his breath by him nestling his face into my shirt as he finally expels the contents of his mind…

“Give another hour for my ransom to rake in and I may reconsider,” My brows raise as I grin at that thought, though it all falls quickly since I know that isn't the tone of reassurance he wants to hear, “It hasn’t been that hopeless. Yeah, you absolutely should’ve listened to me— or rather, your own advice. Older people aren’t magically exempt from getting it wrong, man, they do it easily and often; what matters is that you recognized how you fucked up and, now that you’re okay, you have plenty of time to correct it. It’s still early enough, y’know? It’s...” I pause, lifting my left wrist up so I can read the hands of my analog watch, “Not even eleven yet.”

Lord knows how.

Exhaling a long sigh, I clasp my hands back together at his shoulder, staring down loosely at my knuckles as I continue, “If it’s any consolation, watching you get overzealous with shots and throwing up once isn’t exactly enough criteria to rile my resentment. You didn’t put me through anything I didn’t stay for, man. I mean come on... I would’ve been knocked to my knees here too had you not intervened and nursed me back to health at the bar, so I reckon it’s only right for me to do the same in return when you need it. In case you haven’t noticed, you’re the only person I know in this place and I suspect I’m the only one you know too, so if we want to survive this night and keep it as prosperous as it promised to be, we’re going to have to try and take care of ourselves first and foremost, but also keep taking care of each other...like friends do.”

[thinkingaboutsanfrancisco]

He follows my instructions closely; pressing his fingers in his chest and strenuously dragging them down while he shakily inhales. It’s a relatively shallow breath that he struggles to hold onto, yet he impressively manages to wait for my instruction before releasing it.

“Easy…easy...” My muttering mantra is drowned out by the succession of ragged breaths, but I keep whispering them like it's the plea that the anguish will hear. It helps me, at least. It’s almost unbearable watching the tension tightly screwing his face, but ultimately, it’s his diligence that it listens to; his excruciating wince smoothening as those all too rapid reverberations dissipate, the stall growing quieter and quieter until he clicks back into his steady, effortless, rhythm — leaving only silence to circulate. All seems calm now, but we’ve endured enough unexpected turbulence that I dare not reach such a conclusion without first asking...

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, sorry. Sorry, I uh…”

“Don’t. Please.” I spit out, “Don’t worry about it. Shit happens when you’re sick, it’s fine. Everything’s fine now...”

Shame stains his face regardless. My eyes avert to the saturated tissue beneath my hand, far too warm and soiled by sweat to be of any more relief to him.

“Do you want another towel?”

A simple shake of his head ought to be the encouraging gesture I’ve been waiting for by now, but something has to wipe away that look and it certainly can’t be what I’m holding onto. Surely it’s starting to feel tepid and uncomfortable sticking against his skin...

“Alright...uh, are you finished with this one?”

He nods.

“Damn, my arm wasn’t even numb yet.” I remark once I peel it away, flashing a grin that falls upon its failure to affect his expression. My arm’s minorly cramped at best, but my legs and feet are feeling pins and needles encroaching from sitting like this, so I have to push myself off the floor and stand up to flush this thing away.

His eyes promptly follow, yet his arms maintain their firm guard around his legs and keep him locked in this unfortunate place. I was hoping he’d get up too, dust himself off, and try to salvage his night while it's still reasonably early enough for this bathroom to still be otherwise empty, but I’m not surprised. When your energy has sunk to those brutal depths of hell, the bathroom floor is the coziest place in the world; a cool and sterile cocoon shielding your mending mind from the abrasive bustling beyond it. He’s not ready to move yet. He’s not ready.

And I don’t think he’ll ever be until he gets to clear his conscience.

“Just... stretching,” I say, attempting to mollify my last minute justification with a painfully awkward smile that quickly drops. I step over to the right of him, sighing as I sit back down on the floor and learn from my mistake by stretching out my legs in front of me. Watching me settle next to him, his stare softens and I want to keep this progress while I have it, so I reach my arm around his hunched back, placing my hand securely on the side of his shoulder so he’ll know for sure...

I’ll stay.

[thinkingaboutsanfrancisco]

The second after I say that, the nearly lax look on his face crumbles into a tight grimace and his breathing spikes through our all too brief semblance of equanimity. I briefly hold onto my own, hoping that it’s merely a pang of heartburn from any remaining acid or a fluke that won’t be anything to get worked up over, and I sigh dreadfully when it’s not. He’d thump on his chest to work out the bubble or start coughing if it were, and my trepidation grows with the escalation of each of his overwrought gasps. I’m not paralyzed from it like I was on the floor, though I’m hesitant to jerk my arm away from his face when the red is rising again. The towel is getting warmer and less effective, but he needs anything to keep him cool right now, so I try to soothe the reemerging pulsation in his temples by rubbing small circles over them, hoping that it’ll seep in a little deeper.

We’re in the right place now. If you can make an impressive marathon dash across the club, worst case scenario you’ll be able to turn and make it into the bowl again. I’ll get some more towels and clean you right back up. Don’t fight it. You’re going to be alri—

“I just want you to know, I uh, this...this isn’t me,” He manages to spit out and fuddles my brow. I never insinuated that it was and right now isn’t the time to get into any of it, yet he keeps choking out an explanation anyway: “I’m not like this, I- I don’t, I don’t like, do this regularly. I don’t drink to the point of throwing up… that’s never happened, I just, I-I got a little overzealous. You know? It’s not like, um. It’s not like I have a problem or anything, it’s fine, it’s fine… I’m fine, everything’s fine…”

Sure it is— you’re fucking suffocating yourself!

“Stop. You don’t need to explain. It’ll be fine, just breathe okay?” I try to succor, but I cringe as I hear the useless guidance I gave. He's already breathing; too much, too fast, and too hard. Encouragement isn't what he needs, it's immediate correction, otherwise his hyperventilating will only accelerate.

“Remember: inhale. Inhale as deep as you can...” I press all of the my fingers on my free hand together and drag them down my sternum while I draw as much air into my lungs as I can, hoping he’ll follow the demonstration because the pressure may help ground him. My fingers stop above my stomach and I keep them as still as my breath. “Hold it,” My voice strains to remind him; it's the key to restoring the balance and regaining control. Then my hand splays open and I release it all, “And then exhale...”

[thinkingaboutsanfrancisco]

“Yeah...” He answers, his hoarse voice sounding nowhere near as dry as his humor when he plays on my words, “I feel like a fucking rockstar.”

His self depreciation is amusing enough, yet the irony entrenched deep within it is what really rouses a snicker. Yeah, he does look like one... when the show’s over and they've been brought to their knees in the first free bathroom backstage to purge the excess. Not exactly the portrait of health that’s fit for a glossy magazine cover, but it’s been worked into enough great lyrics, lackluster autobiographies, and bloated biopics for me to consider it the apt interpretation of his metaphor.

You aren’t the first person who’s taken a trip down here. Happens to the best of them.

“I’m sure you do, Kurt,” I tease him, “Perhaps you did assume his spirit...”

I can't believe I'm referencing that night in a lighthearted manner, but God...that was so out of the fucking park that it stuck with me enough to slip.

Despite how he was higher than the Transamerica building, just not on the substance that my paranoid ass thought he was at the time, he must recognize it either as a memory or some phantom thing he would say because he’s laughing too. It’s not another dangerous, uncontrollable, force of a boisterous fit though; rather a good, hearty, chuckle that’s akin to the ones we had at the bar. His flush hasn't tinged too much at all.

“I hope not. I’d like to think I have more than three years left to live,” He quips and damn that’s dark as hell. The anniversary of his death was mere weeks ago, for God's sake — another fact which worsens my bout of forbidden hysteria. We can't get started like this. Not yet. He’s still got a raw headache that I don’t want to aggravate further by being loud and raucous, nor do I dare provoke another aftershock of nausea...

As much as I've missed this levity, I bury my forehead in my knee to stifle myself and swallow down my comeback like it’s my repugnant iron supplements. By the time I've regained enough of my composure to come back up for air, his laughter’s faded, settling us back into quiet sincerity when he circles back to my question to answer it seriously.

“Yeah, it feels nice,” He sighs and closes his eyes again, “Thanks kid.”

He won't see it, but I mirror his softened smile anyway.

“You’re welcome, man.”

[thinkingaboutsanfrancisco]

None of this washes his sorrow away in the slightest. If anything, my gestures fucking backfire. He doesn’t break into a faint smile like I’d hoped he would reciprocate nor can he even mutter a thank you when he does take them, instead his eyes manage to do the impossible and grow bigger and sadder; stunned as if I’ve never stuck around to help him before, as if I wasn’t going to…

You don’t have to keep looking at me so solemnly. Nothing’s forsaken you. It’s going to be okay—we’ll be okay. I’m not going anywhere unless you tell me explicitly that’s what you want me to do. I just want to see you get yourself back together, whatever that takes. 

I fold my arms and stand by, watching as he continues to sit sullen and taciturn. He’s looking at the towels now instead of me, thank fucking God, but he doesn’t wipe his face with them and I know that isn’t to pin on the nausea. He had enough strength to reach out and take them from me, so I figure he can put one up to his fucked up face, yet he hasn’t...he won’t. 

Jesus Christ, man. I’ve forgiven you over it, why can’t you forgive yourself? 

I don’t know. It’s certainly not a question I’m getting an answer to right now and... that’s fine. Forget it. It’s not what I need to ask him when I’m watching sweat stream down his temples and those remnants of vomit on the corner of his mouth threatening to crust…

“Well, if you’re not going to do it, at least can I?” 

He ponders for a long and all to tense second, but eventually communicates with me and nods his sheepish head.

Thank you. 

I can feel the smile that forms after I release my pent breath and I ease myself alongside him, but the second my knees meet the cold tile floor it quickly falters into more of a grossed out grimace with bared teeth when I see how close my proximity has become to the puke stuck in his facial hair. I seriously just vowed to do this; I vowed to kneel down here and clean up this mess for him like he’s only four instead of twenty four because he refuses to do it for himself...

Whatever. Someone has to. 

And at least he’s letting me.

His fingers relent easily when I slip the paper towels away from him and set them on my knee. The spot on his face is quite small, about the size of a penny, so I uncrumple and separate one towel from the others since there’s no need in wasting all of them on this when I’m going to need as many as I can get for his head. Bunching the towel in my fingers, I reach over and start scrubbing away the stain, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards as I do. I’m unsure yet whether he finds this ticklish or is merely trying to bear through his demoralization, but I’m happy to see a faint sliver of light breaking his despair, especially when I’ve got it all. The spot is gone and I reach behind him to fling this soiled thing in the bowl and flush it down, the only remaining trace left of this blemish on our night a secret to be kept safe with me and him. 

My job is far from complete though, and I’m eager to move onto the less humiliating part of this procedure, particularly since I’ve learned the most effective way to do it. Maybe this was a blessing in disguise, honestly, because I’d lose whatever’s left of my mind if I had to watch him quickly swipe over his face and give himself no time for the cool water to seep in...

You’re going to feel so much better after this, I promise. 

I stick the side of my left hand underneath his short fringe and press a new towel over his forehead with my palm, lightly gripping my index and thumb at his temples to hold it in place. It’s the closest to the root that I can sop up and where he needs to feel the cold compression to ease the flaring throbbing from his head that beats against my fingers. My other towel equipped hand keeps busy blotting all over the rest of his face and neck, pressing the saturation over both of his pulse points and his cheeks. It looks awfully awkward and silly and I can’t hold my arm in this weird position forever, but I think it’s starting to work. The thumping isn’t as hard, there’s not any more beads of sweat forming, and his entire expression has softened into what I hope is relief…

“Feeling cooler now?” 

[thinkingaboutsanfrancisco]

Despite how the music outside booms and thuds, we’re insulated adequately in here where such a whisper echoes loudly and the only thing I can do is cringe the second that I hear myself.

So much for regarding his privacy. Checking on him didn’t permit me to barge in and intrude like this. Yeah, I’m someone he knows, but barely. We haven’t developed that sort of intuition yet and just because I‘m so beyond exhausted in that state where I wouldn’t give a flying fuck if someone opened the stall door and trampled over my limp body while I fell back to the floor, much less if they looked at me, doesn’t mean he’s that inclined to relinquish his dignity. Unlocked doors aren’t invitations, especially when he was that hastened and most likely forgot to lock it anyway, and I know better than this; I should’ve waited outside until he’s ready to be seen— which absolutely isn’t when he’s burying his head to escape the excruciating headache. As if I couldn’t feel any more useless, I remember that I can’t even offer him a spare Dramamine or Excedrin out of my pocket either, since I was in such a rush to get out of the apartment that I didn’t bring my jacket.

I’m...I’m sorry, I—

He lifts his head, and my regret sears when I see his face.

Jesus...you look miserable.

For what it’s worth, it’s not the worst I’ve seen him— the desolate shell of a man I found in the park still haunts me—but this mess is closer to claiming the title than I hoped. Not like anyone looks particularly glamorous after throwing up, but this bathroom’s harsh fluorescents are merciless in their illumination of his ruin; the hint of green in his ghastly shade of pallor contrasts with how flushed his cheeks are under a sheen of sweat, and there’s a gross bit of vomit on his mouth that needs to be tended to soon...

But all of those details are blurred behind how he looks up at me. His irritation is the one emotion I can’t locate, instead I first find how his eyes droop at the corners so dolefully in lament that comes with losing the battle of control of your own fucking body. It looks worse on him than it ever does in the mirror, remembering how contented and blissful they were mere minutes ago. Defeat wasn’t the planned outcome of his night, it was supposed to be triumph. It was — we were toasting and dancing for fuck’s sake! He was only trying to feel better...he merely got carried away, he didn’t mean to wind up here...but where the fuck else did he think he was going to wind up at that rate? The fucking lounge? He’s not that stupid. If he knows enough about tequila to school me on it and nourish me back to health after two almost sent me here, then I reckon he’s damn well knowledgeable of what happens when downing six of them without drinking any water in between like he told me he would.

That’s why he’s not feigning innocence. 

The deeper truth between us has too taut of a tether on his stare to let us stray away from it; it’s not my fault that he got in over his head but I let him keep going because he misled me into believing that everything was okay, that he was okay, even though he was just ignoring me and all my warning cues blaring that he wasn’t, and now we’re suffering the consequences. They’re a tale that’s as old as time to me, more familiar than some of my books that I’ve read until their pages separated from the cracked spine, but he doesn’t know that. He doesn’t know yet how deep my reservoir of patience runs or how much he can take advantage of my expendable amount of chances...

All he knows is that he’s sorry. 

Above all else, it’s that honesty keeping him fixated on me so frightfully, desperate to communicate his contrition as if my empathy will suddenly wane before he gains the strength to say the words aloud, and it’s unbearable enough for me to stop my gawking and finally turn away. I can’t stand seeing him this shattered, especially over a fuck up that’s remediable...

There’s a silver paper towel dispenser across the room that I walk over to, yanking quite a few of them out to take over to the sink and wet under the faucet before I return, like I should’ve considered doing in the first place. 

“Here,” I say with a sympathetic half-smile, extending my arm out and holding the bundle of paper towels in front of him, “You need these.”

[thinkingaboutsanfrancisco]

My inquiries reverberate his howling so hard that he’s practically suffocating from it, yet, as much this continued fit of laughter incriminates the shit out of him and delights my spiteful ass, my brows remain crooked with expectancy until S relinquishes and unabashedly attempts to confess to the source of his hilarity and hypocrisy: “J… J, fuck, oh my god, oh my fucking god, J…you look like the inflatable tube man! Holy shit! You look like the fucking inflatable tube man! Oh my god!”

Oh fuck you, man!

He possesses quite the audacity for someone who can't even fucking stand up straight. Don’t do that, don’t patronize me. I know damn well my moves are nowhere near that fluid. 

Flipping up both of my middle fingers right in his face and moving them in time with the shimmy of my shoulders, the fury in my spite dance ramps up further when the song unleashes from its oddly reflective bridge and into this scathing fourth verse that’s so insanely apt that I’d be inclined to call it prophetic if I was that serious about any of this. 

“What are you gonna do when I appear?” I repeat, my smirk expanding into a full shit eating grin when he succumbs to his fit again. I’m enjoying the hell out of this. I enjoy incriminating him and making him suffer so hard that he’s wheezing and momentarily ruining his dancing cred so he can be on my level. Shit, I’m having so much fun fucking with him that I’ve forgotten about anyone and everyone else surrounding us, though I’m going to have to cut it out soon because it’s getting to be painful watching him. His face is getting so beat red that he’s going to blend in with the violet of the lights if we keep this up and he’s becoming scarily askew again too, which makes me particularly nervous since his knees are starting to buckle and there’s not a bar counter or a stool for him to clutch onto for balance out here...

There’s only me.

Right as I realize that unfortunate fact is when he come tumbling down into me, my eyes flying wide as my arm reflexively wraps around him to keep us both on our feet. 

“Oh, J, you kill me… you’re such a fucking bitch… ” He slurs and, while an airy laugh emits from me, it’s more of an aftershock from the collision than one containing any real humor. I’m not finding much too funny about this anymore...

You’re going to kill me if you don’t regain your composure. 

Seriously... I’m not strong enough to carry him like this for too long and I don’t want to fall backward and get myself crushed by his dead weight because I fucking would. I can hardly hold onto moderately heavy boxes for too long nowadays without getting winded and lightheaded, much less this fully grown man who is hanging on so close to me that all of six of the shots reeking in his rancid breath trigger that salty saliva to pool in my mouth and I have to keep it swallowing down hard so I don’t start gagging. 

We worked too hard to stabilize my nausea, man. Don’t fuck it all up now... 

Oblivious to the widened eyes looking at him with revolt and fear, he continues his permeation of my personal space and lolls his head back so that’s he’s laughing right in my face while blaming me for making his stomach hurt; begging me to relent as if the joke isn’t dead and cold. If there’s anything I should yield to, it’s the flaming urge to shove his drunk ass the fuck off of me so I can free myself from these toxic fumes, but I don’t. The last thing I want is for him to get hurt—even if he’s so intoxicated that he would sit there knocked back on his ass and find it extremely hilarious when it’s absolutely fucking not. 

The thought vexes me into my senses. He’s going to encumber me? Fine. But we’re done out here. I don’t care if there’s a new song blaring that I’m sure he loves, I’m done dancing with him. We’re going back to the bar — or anywhere to sit down for a minute — and then I’m going to deal. We’ve had our fun, certainly more than I was ever expecting to when I walked in here, but he needs to fucking rest and I’ve procrastinated enough. C’mon. 

With a sigh, I force a small smile that I hope will encourage him to resist any urge to be argumentative and and actually listen to me this time, but it drops because suddenly he feels a lot heavier. I mean, he was never light on me, but he’s become a fucking laden boulder downright sinking my shoulder in a matter of seconds. 

And nobody’s laughing now.

He’s silenced by this episode of erratic breathing, and it’s all too apparent that the culprit glazing his eyes has awakened from dormancy with all of its vile vengeance, dilating them with a danger we both recognize is imminent. 

He’s going to fucking blow.  

“Oh, oh god, it really does.” He panics but I can’t even help myself, much less him. All of those urges to push him away freeze, leaving me stuck with my meager stare alone to will him to not to do this to me...not here...not now. 

Please…

With bated breath and closed eyes, I brace myself for the impending worst seconds of my night when it won’t be mere word vomit spewing from his mouth, yet it’s his palms that I’m met with instead; striking into my chest with enough force and velocity to rip my grasp away from him and send me staggering a couple of steps backwards. I bump into what I’m relieved is not a poor fucking person holding a drink that I’m going to be bitched at for spilling, but rather the pillar closest to our edge of the floor. I rest against it, steading my gasps for sweet fresh air as I reel from this brutal currant of dizziness and the blurry waves of confusion. 

Did he...did he just fucking push me?!  

He did, and when the concept of vision stops stinging enough for me to see him barreling his way through the crowd, I understand damn well why and immediately revel in gratitude for his reflexes being swifter than mine. He spared me...and I just hope that he can make it in time to spare himself. Someone should be there with him in case he needs anything, though. Someone he knows.

So, after running a hand through my hair to wipe off the sweat, I drop my arm to my side with a sigh and start off after him. I’m not going to run and throw myself in a hacking fit and a losing battle trying to catch up — the further back I am, the better— and I don’t have to. Keeping sight of him is easy since he’s one of the tallest people in this crowd, a majority of whom are still stunned in the wake of his emergent interruption of their drunken conversations to remain parted from the path he blazed, and I barely have to contort myself around them. 

Of course, there are some stubborn exceptions. I have to exchange apologies to the more oblivious drunks so that they’ll get out of my way and they eventually do without much complaint other than a roll of their eyes and an annoyed scoff. It’s a lot more than I can say for this belligerent asshole somewhere ahead of me who dares to defy the volume of the music by shouting to S that he should watch where he’s going — like that sheer survivalist tunnel vision is breakable or should be fucked with. I’ve run by enough assholes like this in the school hallways to know this stupidity isn’t solely derived from alcohol either, so what the fuck else makes people believe that’s a productive thing to do to someone who is about to fucking hurl?  Shit, if S has to throw up on anyone, it should be on prick here for spite. Might teach him a lesson in minding his own fucking business...

He manages to flip him off instead, much to my delight. 

Someone’s taken a page out of my book, I see. 

I’ll tease him about it later when things are calmer, but currently we have to finish rounding this precarious corner. The few guys in line are too busy fucking around on their phones — hassling their indolent dealers for their fix probably — to clamor much when he cuts in front of them and crashes into the bathroom. By the time I get there the door’s still swinging like a pendulum, airing this eruption out into the hallway, and after my palm pushes through, I take the time to close it properly. He deserves the privacy. 

And he definitely picked the right club for it, because this place didn’t skimp on the stalls; an overwhelming row of their grey doors span between two walls, extending beyond the sink counter. I'm unable to instantaneously locate him by finding his backwards shoes, so I have to follow the echo. The gurgling and retching should trigger my gag reflex and send me diving for refuge in the nearest vacant spot, yet it upsets my ears more than anything. Yeah he did it to himself, but whatever. The ‘told you so’ doesn’t fucking matter because I hate this. I hate hearing anyone endure the purgatory, maybe more than I do going through it myself.  At least when it’s me in the throes, I’m too busy to feel so damn forlorn. 

Right as the dreadful sound is close enough in my ear to where I’m certain I’ve found his stall, it stops. My breath hitches in case it’s only a cruel pause, until a flush and some light coughing thankfully breaks the silence and I deem it safe enough to push open the door...

In the middle of the floor with his head bowed and buried in his knees, weakly hugging his legs with shaky arms, his nice olive shirt soaked in sweat while his back and shoulders sharply rises and falls with each labored gasp, is where I find my poor friend. 

“Oh no...”

[thinkingaboutsanfrancisco]

Grinning practically ear to ear at that, he starts raving about how much fun this will be, and his frenetic energy is infectious. I’ve been stuck here stewing for so long that I’m excited just to get up and move, really; if I stay in this damn seat for much longer, I fear that my ass will become a permanent part of it. S doesn’t quite get that I was teasing about my arm, so much so that I almost cut through and spell that out plainly for him to speed things up, but whatever— he does loosen his latch so I can slide off of this hard stool and plant my feet on the ground. My legs are swollen and sore as always, but gone is that rush of weakness that threatened my knees to collapse on the ground earlier. Not only am I stable enough to stand and stretch, as I turn around to wait for him, I find that there’s even a nice, rejuvenated, little bounce in my step.        

Wish I could say the same for him.

Swiveling himself around too hastily for what he’s had, S mirrors precisely what I worried would happen to me and often does without the alcoholic component; vertigo’s vengeful volt screws his eyes shut while he desperately clutches onto the counter to stabilize himself. Miraculously he’s still on his feet, but his stance is shakily askew and he really should sit down until he stops seeing those stars and swirls…

He’s laughing his ass off at this though, so I don’t feel so bad about allowing a chuckle at the irony to slip while I extend my hand out for him, “Forget about me. Are you sure you can dance?”

The second the slightest fragment of vision no longer feels excruciating, he looks up at my gesture and opts to refuse it in the worst way possible by shaking his head. 

“Uh… yeah! Yeah, don’t… don’t worry about me, I’m just, just really feeling those shots… it’ll go away…” He insists, but the way he’s so out of breath narrows my doubtful brow deeper. 

Not if you keep doing that shit.  

“Are you sure you’re alright?” I ask again, flexing my hand firmer for him to do the smart thing and grab ahold of it. He doesn’t, because he’s not— he’s all left...he’s a leftist. 

Ah...clever one, man. Very clever. 

It’s nowhere near enough to make me double over, but it merits a snort and slight head shake over how I should’ve listened to him the first time so I could’ve spared his awful save. Either way, he’s laughing and standing up a little straighter, and I take it that the spell has largely subsided, so I lean my arm back on the corner of the counter and grab my half-empty cup of Coke for a quick drink. Don’t want it to go to waste. 

“Alright, fucker,” He says when his fit subsides, though I’m unsure if he’s referring to me or it’s his way of coercing himself into swallowing down number six. I absolutely cringe watching him, especially when he slams the glass and his hand down hard onto the marble, yet he doesn’t blink, “Let’s fucking tear this bitch UP!”

At this rate, you seriously might. 

I smirk to myself at that, but he does manage to turn around without incident, so I set my cup down and start following his lead. With each step I can feel the bass thumping underneath my feet louder and harder but I’m not bludgeoned by it like before. It’s a swift and snappy house beat that struts to keep its pace with the rapid fire flow of the woman rapping it. I have no idea who she is, but the confidence cutting through her voice commands that I should. She’s cocky, sure, but she sure as hell doesn’t sound insipid or vapid. When she asserts that she’s a rude bitch, I fucking believe her — and, in a world currently plagued by the new plastic that is Iggy Australia, this song’s ample authenticity is refreshing. It’s the real fucking deal. 

The groove puts a little glide in my gait and dodging my way through here doesn’t feel as draining as it did earlier. Contorting myself around the crowd is still uncomfortable and I remain fearful of someone drenching my dad’s shirt with their sloshing cups of booze, but they do step aside and my awkward, apologetic, smile is sufficient enough to even garner a couple mutterings of oh sorry in return as we pass through. Shit, the strobes aren’t bothering me as much anymore either. I flinched at their first flash, but the closer we get the more they are engulfed in the thick purple and blue fog infiltrating the air. It’s cool, everything’s all cool.

The dam breaks and we're at the crest of the congregation’s wild wave; submerged in a scary sea of shaking and spinning. Steadily stamping their sneakers and stilettos, they’re all sporting soused smiles while they sway; some simmer in their sinful satisfaction as they spread their hands all over the sweaty bodies of their partners, while others shine in the serenity of their solitude, splaying their fingers through the smoke and loosely reaching into their sky. With movements so fluid and free, S steps into the latter seamlessly. He’s having so much fun and...I’m fucking stuck, standing here all stiff and stupefied; procrastinating. I like this song, for Christ sake! Enough for me to want to dance to it, even—but I can’t! I-I don’t know where to fucking begin and I don’t belon—

“J! What the fuck are you doing?! Dance with me, man!” My friend’s voice cuts through all of this noise and rings around in my head. I want to form some sort of answer for my failure to follow through, but it’s all fruitless. Facing me now, he lowers his arms and grabs me by my cold, fingers, trying to raise my limp limbs up like I’m Pinocchio. This is just...this is so ridiculous. We look fucking insane! But he doesn’t care and, as I look around us, I realize that he’s telling me the truth: no one else really does either. 

“Okay, okay. I’ll do it,” I relent, freeing my hands from his grasp and stepping over to the left of him to give myself some space. My shoulders are the first to succumb to shaking off the rust, shimmying them to the sound that my head starts moving along to. Not the most complex dance moves, I know, but they can’t be the worst ones on this floor of dizzy drunkards...

It’s fun initially, letting myself work out some of my pent up energy to this absolute banger, yet I’m all too aware that I lack the substance fueled stamina that must be keeping everyone else energized and I soon feel rather silly in the most flat, futile, sense. Like..this is it? This is all I’m doing? After making such Herculean effort to liberate myself from stagnancy, I’m stuck in one spot again? 

If I’m going to do that, I think I prefer the bar…

Whatever, I agreed to this and I’ll see it through, regardless if I’m growing rather bored.  I try to stimulate my mind by scanning around for the snowbirds around us as I continue swaying, hoping to spot one close by that looks like they’re going to come down so I can zero in on them when they inevitably come off of the perch, but it’s quite the blurry crapshoot with all of the bouncing in the fog and I’m soon jarred out of it all by this guffaw. 

Looking back to its source, I find that S has ceased all other of his other movements to clutch his sides as he’s caught in the throes of hysteria. It’s pretty on par for his dangerously tipsy ass, except for his eyes aren’t closed this time. There’s a subject inspiring this fit. 

Me. 

He’s laughing at me. 

And this provokes my offense greatly. 

How dare he double over at my dazzling dance moves! Doesn’t he know what beauty he’s being bestowed with? C’mon man, Fred Astaire would be jealous of the flare my feet carry on this fucking floor!  

Nahhhhhhhh, even David Byrne’s footwork is more fashionable than mine. I know I dance like shit, it’s alright, but so much for him not caring what I look like... 

“Whatcha laughing at, man?” I ask with feigned innocence inflecting my pitch, a mischievous smile creeping in while I continue to bop my head, “What’s so funny?” 

[thinkingaboutsanfrancisco]

Dancing? 

The suggestion grips me with the force of sheer horror, all too fleeting optimism fading and my eyes widening the second I hear it.  

Oh fuck. 

I don’t know how I didn’t consider it beforehand, but I wish I would’ve so I could’ve warned him before he got himself so excited over it. What the fuck happened to relaxing? That isn’t relaxing, man! I can’t even sit properly, so what the hell makes you think I know how to dance?! I can’t dance! Not in that crowded platform with all of those people! Don’t you know how fucking mortifying that would be for me? I-I don’t know shit about dancing and everyone would find that out all too quickly. You don’t want to know how awful I’d be out there. C’mon… 

“Uhh, no thanks, man. I think I’ve embarrassed myself enough for one night.” I answer, the pain of the mere thought contorting my face into a deep wince. I hate to harness his hopes, but there’s simply no fucking way I’m setting myself up like that. I can’t. 

“Embarrassed yourself — huh?! Man, who are you trying to impress? The cokeheads you’re gonna sell to later?!”

“Yes.”

Easy to joke when you don’t have to worry about it. 

For as much as I’ve stressed myself about selling here, I’d like to at least have the chance. If I go out there, I’m sure no one would want to look at me again, much less buy from me. 

At least that’s what I think — like that’s to be trusted tonight. 

“You don’t need to be worrying about impressing nobody. Fuck that, J, fuck that so hard,” S proclaims with a blithesome laugh that provokes a snort of my own. Those five shots are definitely in control now and they’re the fuel he needs for another admirable attempt at saving me from my stubborn self-consciousness, “The first step to becoming relaxed is not giving a damn what people think. You gotta separate from your ego! Push all that shit aside! You need to humiliate yourself a little, because that’s the purest state of peace — looking like an absolute fool and not caring that you do...”

Aren’t you supposed to be learning to loosen up? Seems like you’ve had a head start. 

Or perhaps I’m already further along than I give myself credit for, because this knowledge resonates in my soul. He’s right. It is the purest state of peace—fuck, sometimes it’s been my sole state of peace...

—“Who were you before you realized what a cruel and judgmental world we live in? Before society made you feel shame for who you are?” 

Bold of you to assume that I could remember it. 

I do, but barely. It would knock him right out of the dancing mood to find out that I was a Kindergartner when my small shoulder was introduced to the burden of societal shame, so I’ll spare it. 

That kid isn’t who you’re really looking for anyway.

He’s looking for who I am when the leash tethering me to my ego is so loose that I can't feel the collar, where the horizon of shamelessness is in sight and its rays shine bright enough to thaw my embarrassment. Fortunately those moments are easier for me to remember, especially considering that lately I’ve been capturing the screwiest selections of them for Snapchat and the goddamn ‘Gram if they’re really golden. It’s all produced by the cells in my brain that are dying, I swear to God. I loathe having my picture taken in any other circumstance, yet I’ll gladly zoom right the fuck into the depths of my pores, mold my face into some goofy, grotesque, expression that shouldn’t be humanly possible, and be so marveled at the how strange and mortifying I look that I’m compelled to share it somewhere. The weirdest part is that I don’t give a fuck who else sees it either— hell, I enjoy breaking up the mundane timeline of food pictures, filters, and FaceTune so much that I feed off of it. If I weren’t as slick as I am, I would probably get reprimanded at work by my manager for capturing all of my obnoxious posing with all of the incredibly expensive instruments that I can’t play, but if the day ever comes where I get caught...I wouldn’t freak out. Seriously, I’d be okay with it just because a couple of my coworkers and a few of my followers found it as amusing as I did. It’s insane — a total antithesis of my nature — and that’s probably why it’s so fucking fun. 

So yeah, man...what am I doing worrying about fucking cokeheads? 

They’re so laser focused on getting their lines and going back to making fools out of themselves in much more nefarious ways that they hardly care to look at me anyway, only what I’m giving them. The punctuality and proper presence I prioritize will never be as pristine as the product, so why the hell am I letting their opinion get in the way of allowing any of my silly and stupid side to show here? Especially when I need him and my friend is pleading to meet him...

“Let him out. Just fucking let him out and come dance with me, JJ…” 

It cracks me up seeing this grown ass dude turn into an impatient little kid who’s lightly tugging on my arm as if he’s only dying to drag me away from my seat so I’ll join him on the playground instead of the club’s corybantic center. I was starting to come around anyway, but there’s something deeper in his urgency that really convinces me. He knows…

If I don’t move soon, I’ll spiral into this shitty slope further. 

And that’s the scariest thing of all.   

“Alright, alright, alright. Since you asked me nicely, I guess I’ll dance with you,” I give in with an exaggerated sigh and roll of my eyes before my playful smile spreads, “Easy on the arm though, kiddo. I can’t do much dancing with a dislocated shoulder, y’know.” 

[thinkingaboutsanfrancisco]

Shit, I did say that already, didn’t I? Sorry. God, I’m slipping...

Sure, it’s merely a minor malfunction and certainly not the worst one to have since he’s happy to hear it and continues to beam at me with unalloyed appreciation, yet it nonetheless indicates that I’m bad enough off to blank out and I hate that; I hate how rapidly I’m deteriorating, especially before my night’s work has even begun, and I’m so exhausted by my mind that all I can do is let out a sigh. 

I just want to fucking relax. 

Why do I have to make that so hard for myself? It’s okay now. I got the clearance that I coveted, he’s given me every reassurance I could receive, and I do feel better from being relieved of my burdensome questions...so why can’t loosening up be easy for me now? Why hasn’t my mind taken the hint? It was so close to being there, for fuck’s sake. Why must it be so screwed up that it keeps scrambling to sabotage any chance of serenity that I get—even if the subject it spins to scare me is stupid and truly not worth a second thought? Can’t it stop and shut the fuck up already? He’s talking...

“I get needing clarification. Anxiety has a funny way of muddling things. It eclipses all logic. You can never tell if it’s intuition or paranoia, you can never tell what is real and what is merely a product of your perceptions...”

You got that right, man. 

My senses are so screwed up by it that I seriously can’t tell shit apart anymore and I’m starting to feel crazy from it all. Honestly, with what simple miscues have been able to set me off into pure psychosomatic peril lately, I have to be toeing that fine and fragile line of being certifiable. 

“Discernment is not something I have in abundance anymore, so…you know…” 

No shit. 

His honesty is vindicating for me to hear, yet whatever moment of righteousness I’ve anticipated for the last two months practically dissipates on arrival because yeah...no shit, right? Considering what this unpredictable world we’re in does to drain it, how the hell could he? How could anyone? It’s almost unfair how unrealistic of an expectation it is. Nothing’s ever as it seems. You’re required for your life to be astute at all times and not only continuously consider all of the possibilities, but all of the meanings that could be underlying them. Whether it’s mortal, moral, material or all three, motive is the sole prevailing constant here. It’s the weapon we all walk around wielding and you never quite know how far someone's willing to go with theirs — they might not even know it themselves until you’re both in the midst of its draw…

Any discernment at all is a miracle…

And you had enough of it that night to stop. 

Another breath releases from me then, a strong sense of alleviation rushing through my lungs. It’s a strange sensation; that memory should scare me straight like it usually does, not settle me...but I shouldn’t be the slightest bit surprised. Strange shit is all that settles me nowadays. 

“Shit fucking sucks,” He continues before doubling down on how I don’t need to apologize because he’s sorry for telling me to loosen up and I have to crook my brow. 

Why? You’re right for it. I need to. This is the frontier for forgetting, not for figuring out how much I need a fucking psychiatrist. 

—“It doesn’t come easy to me, either. Why do you think I had five fucking shots just now? Why do you think I’m stoned half the time I see you? It’s so hard. Everyone else seems to be able to do it on command, but me? If I want to relax, I need to employ some sort of substance to do it.”

Oh…really? 

I understand getting stoned since I’d need something to deal with me half the time as well, but...that’s why he did the shots too? I could’ve sworn he was doing those like how everyone else does here and getting fucked up for fun—not getting fucked up to have fun. He seriously seemed so comfortable and loose here that it’s impressive how convincing he is. I thought he belonged... 

“And it’s not fucking good. Don’t be like me, okay? Don’t ever do that. I’m just saying… I understand. Maybe you and I can learn to loosen up together…” He finishes with a laugh and I shamelessly let myself join in. 

It’s a little too late for that. 

But he’s right that it's not a good thing to resort to and I believe him when he says he understands too. He can’t truly belong here if he’s never been before either. We’re both strangers to everyone except each other here, it’s pretty much fated that we try and figure this out together. 

“I like that idea. That’s what friends are for, aren’t they? Figuring out these kinds of problems that plague us?” I ask only half-seriously, “I hope so, because I really want to learn. Need to, actually, because I’m beyond sick of my anxiety fucking up my night. It’s ruined enough for me this week and I just wanna relax, man. Thing is that I’m fresh out of ideas on how to go about it. These kinds of crowded places are uh...the furthest from my idea of relaxation, but my usual ideas haven’t exactly worked any miracles for me either so...I don’t know...what else can we do here?”

[thinkingaboutsanfrancisco]

You don’t have to, you know. I don’t need you to be. I don’t need you to be another example of how disposable the things in my life infallibly are; I don’t need you to lengthen the chain of my debts that you’ll regretfully realize all too soon and all too late that I’ll never be able to pay, I don’t need you to try to get so close only to back away when you detest the decay that you’ll see, I don’t need your gestures and warm words to ultimately fade into nothing more than another one of my melancholic memories, and I sure as hell don’t need you to fool yourself: I’ll always be suffering from this sickness. But I don’t need you to worry either. There’s no cure for my corrupted conscious and nobody, no matter how earnest their endeavors, has or will be able to free me from its cold captivity.  Don’t spare any sympathy for me, spare yourself from my contagion. You don’t want it. You don’t want to keep dealing with how much of a dull and devoid person I am, you don’t want the tedious burden of babysitting a severely lonely and fucked up kid that you met on the street, you don’t want to keep having to teach me these simple acts that I’ve deprived myself of understanding, you don’t want to keep getting burned by my selfishness and repulsive inconsiderateness, and you don’t want to keep having to entertain this awful question that I can never keep to myself no matter how much I hate asking it. I don’t think you understand—you don’t want me, S; not as your inadequate friend who rudely killed the fun in your night. Don’t look at me anymore, look at yourself in the reflection of that tray. See that shot of disappointment? I did that to you and I did it to her too...

So why are you still smiling at me? 

“Cause I like you, JJ,” He answers with a simple, strong sort of confidence...as if that’s all it’ll take to convince me, even though he’s merely reiterating the problem: I know you do, but you won’t for very long. That’s why I need to shake my head, I need to warn him like I wish I could’ve warned her…

He doesn’t let me. 

With his expanding grin that makes me wince and a half-playful nudge in my shoulder that deepens my shame, he continues, “And I think you deserve to be treated nicely…” 

My eyes widen at such an insinuation and I want to laugh at the bitter irony yet, instead of brushing over the beginnings of my disbelief or defensively doubling down on his assertion, he recognizes the totality of my reaction; “Contrary to what you may believe deep in your heart. I’m not judging you for that, either. I understand, you know? I’m like that, too. Every time someone does something nice for you, it feels like a debt that you have to pay off, right? Like you have to prove that you are worthy of their kindness…”

Holy shit. Who the fuck...how did you know that specifically? I-I didn’t even say anything to you, I didn’t say anything at all…but yeah, you are right. That’s exactly how I feel.  

So I nod keenly, hoping he’ll indulge in the comfort of our chronic commonality because no one’s ever confessed it to me before, much less someone who I know I owe, and he possesses such compassion behind it that it should relieve me into the polite, smiling, concession that I know we’re both waiting for, but instead I’m struck with a strong, solemn, intrigue. Why could you figure that out so readily? Why are you so familiar with it that you can identify it too? 

— “But that’s not what it’s about, J. The nature of kindness is not transactional.”

What? Yeah it is. Especially in this material fucking business, but only because it’s been so deeply ingrained beyond it. Treat others like you want to be treated in return or, truly, be as kind as you want someone to be to you, right? Is that not the elementary moral transaction that society is funded on, despite how that its promised outcome is often never fulfilled? Is that not the source of our debts? Is that not the self-serving expectation that got us here? 

Not entirely. 

— “You only hope to make the other person happy. You know what that’s like; you put in so much effort last week just to make me feel better. You didn’t have to go, but you did. Just like I don’t have to do things for you, but I do, because I want to. So keep in mind that when you ask “why are you being so nice to me”, I could ask you the same thing. We do these things for each other because we want to. Neither of us see it coming, but we ought to, because this— you, me — ain’t just business anymore.”

C’mon, it really wasn’t that much effort, man. It was only a matter of picking up my phone and realizing I needed to take a different train after work. I guess it  was about as simple as...

Oh. 

God, hearing him even mention business feels so weird right now, much less after all of that. Despite how much it tries to creep to the forefront of my mind, business slipped into being a secondary concern since Sunday morning in the diner and it terrifies me, but not as much as it would if we both weren’t startled by our bold crossing of this borderline beyond it and it finally dawns on me that his seeming indifference towards what used to be our primary motivation wasn’t  just him being facetious, it was also his acceptance of our progression; one that each of those admissions of how unforeseen our friendship has been keeps solidifying him in, all while I’ve been stuck stirring in the surrealism of it’s surprising seamlessness...

Fuck, I’m still doing it. 

I’m still moving this fucking straw around this same fucking cup and...I don’t know why I am because I’m growing pretty tired of it. I don’t want to keep doing it, I don’t want to keep making myself miserable, and I don’t want to keep doing these stupid things that could make him think I don’t want his friendship because I do. I want us to stay in this place, I want our strides to be the one act of indulgence he won’t regret when he’s sober, I want him to keep wanting to do these nice little things for me and I want to keep doing them for him too because I want to be better. I need to be better...

So what the fuck am I waiting for? 

The notion’s never expired. His patient eyes on me remain as steady as that still glass of water before me and I finally reach for the other straw, closing my eyes as I take a long drink. It’s good... it’s really fucking good. I’m going to need to nurse it a lot slower for my stomach to settle, but at least my throat already isn’t as fucked anymore.

“You can afford to loosen up a bit, J. If I’m too much, you can tell me anytime and I’ll cut it out. I mean, I know I’m really intense. And if you want a serious answer to your question, it’s pretty simple. I take care of my friends.”

That is pretty simple, isn’t it? 

“I know you do…” I exhale, a small, apologetic, smile forming when I look back over at him, “Um, I’m sorry if I made it seem like I was doubting that. I wasn’t, I just...uh, needed to clarify it all y’know? You weren’t being intense there, my festering compulsion was — and I’ve really got to quit letting it unleash so curtly because God, I come off like such an ungrateful asshole for it — but you gave me a really good answer. It’s the one I wanted and more so... thank you for that...and for everything else as well, in case I haven’t said that already because I don’t think I have and I should’ve since it’s long overdue. Yeah, uh...loosening up doesn’t exactly come easy to me, especially on Friday nights, but maybe I can start to now…”

[thinkingaboutsanfrancisco]

Enthusiastically accepting to partake in my ceremonious gesture, S declares that he wants to top us off with a toast of his own and, judging by the formal clearing of his throat, this is going to be good. I just know it; it excites a bubbling within me as I anticipate the short but spiritedly explicit vain that his tipsy toast is going to take...

Here’s to those who wish us well...and those who don’t can go to hell.

However, his liquid courage oozes beyond what my jocular ass would’ve said or settled for. He’s spirited alright, and still surprisingly succinct for someone who’s about to down shot number four, but there’s not a hint of sarcasm to be found when he seizes the moment: “To finding friendship in the most peculiar places. To me finally being able to breathe again, to you conquering your first shot and coming out tonight with my crazy ass and actually seeming to enjoy it quite a bit — it’s fucking great to see you smiling this much, J...”

It’s great to have something to smile over. 

I still can’t believe it. Somehow that’s been afforded to me on this night after this awful sleep-deprived week in a nightclub out of all places and fuck it feels good—albeit a little strenuous since I can’t even remember the last time I’ve held one this long—but whatever, I can’t stop. I am starting to enjoy myself here and I think it’s because he miraculously took my mind away from everything else. I can’t hear the abrasive music anymore; it’s not gone, vibrations of the bass linger in the background, but that grating pressure in my head has cleared significantly and I breathe a little easier as I listen to the rest of his proclamation; wishing upon us eternal exuberance, laughter, good times and good people. He’s ambitious; those things are so scarce in life that I should be doubting him as delusional for such a demand, but his optimism is too inspiring. I forget sometimes that there’s nothing wrong with merely wanting something. Those are incredibly generous and kind things to want for someone, actually, especially when said someone is quite the cynical, neurotic, and derelict bastard…

But I want all of those wishes to come true for us too.  

“Cheers,” I say, the sight of the tequila sloshing around in his glass when it meets my sturdy, empty, one merits a chuckle out of me as their gratifying clink rings in my ears. Empty and full, sufficient and lacking; they look so strange next to each other and, nausea be damned, I wish I would’ve done just one more to have celebrated this properly, y’know...third time’s the charm and all. However, when I look over at the tray, I realize that would’ve been impossible: empty glasses are all that remain outside of the one in his hand, which he’s still holding—along with a gaze on me that keeps me smiling at him.

C’mon, go ahead... you’ve earned it. 

He believes so too and gulps it down before daring to contemplate this sacred sentimentality. I appreciate his self-cognizance, but I think the alcohol’s affecting him more than he admits, because I know he’s openly emotional and... I’m okay with it. I have been. Seriously, Sunday was this week and I was there. I was there when the morning sun was pouring through the windows to fuel his infectious haze of happiness and, twelve or so hours later, I was there sitting beside him while he cried when it all crashed down. That night might’ve opened up a painful Pandora’s box for me that I’ve since spent every single waking hour regretting ever prying at it, but I never regretted staying with him. I don’t want him to suffer such purgatory again and much prefer his sappy tears tonight, but I’m happy to beckon the call if he ever needs it. 

There’s certainly no need for me to pray about it, S...I’m just glad you’re okay. 

“I think I’m qualified,” I remind him and the peace that instantaneously washes over his face says it all; he thinks so too. 

A profound silence settles upon us as we bask in this affirmation and it’s so perfectly pure that I don’t prod it. He’ll talk when he’s ready and I’ve got nothing else pertinent to add, so I soon find myself focused on the sensation of slowly straightening out a strand of my hair and twirling loosely it around the end of my finger, wondering about this one minor thing that starts to distract me...

When is she coming back? 

It’s slightly tormenting because I can see her—she’s right there— but her back is turned to us as she rapidly tends to far more taxing orders of those in the cue, and, at this point, I wish she’d come over here so I can tell her not to worry about my silly order. It’s not like I need it and I’d feel really bad if she got chewed out by some drunken dipshit for taking a break to tend to me all the way back here...

“Alright, where’s the fucking bartender at? I need more shots, like instantly,” S speaks up and, before I can gesture to how swarmed she is on the other side so that he’ll understand to be extra-cool with her about it, he suddenly remembers something: “Wait, did you say you were nauseous?” 

I nod, because yeah, I still am. It’s calmed down significantly from earlier to where I don’t feel like I’m going to die like I did, but...I don’t feel as good as I did a minute ago either. It’s at least threatening to come back and, while S’ remedy would probably stabilize me, the fact that I’ve now made it a deal worsens me. 

No, you don’t have to. Seriously, I’ll be fine. It’s not worth the trouble of bothering her, especially when she’s beyond busy. 

I don’t think he intended for her to hear his plans — he’s about as surprised as I am when she turns to our side, rushing over with my bulky glass of Coke in her hand. Freshly poured, it’s so filled to the brim with carbonation that I fear the top might spill on the both of us when she sets it down, but it doesn’t. Like a true professional, she apologizes profusely for the wait, and I offer her as much of a steady and polite smile as my guilt will let me muster.

“No, it’s fine, really. Thank you.” 

Seriously, she’s got nothing to apologize for. I know it’s just a Coke, but it looks immaculate. The abundant foam has fizzled out some, but the ice cubes and straw are still surrounded with all of those tiny, sparkling, little bubbles that make restaurant Coke so much better than the shitty bottles from the vending machine that go flat. Bringing the straw closer to my lip, one sip of the cold, familiar, syrupy, goodness instantly satisfies me. It was worth the wait. 

She’s relieved enough by my answer to jest, “These Friday nights are getting to me...” 

Yeah, they’re getting to me too. 

My overzealous reaction of amusement at this invites another thick layer of irony when I swallow too rough and the carbonation shoots straight up to my fucking nose, acidicly tickling the shit out of it and making me feel like a seven year old for not being able to handle my damn soda—like I didn’t feel stupid enough already. I’m safe, though. Nobody notices. Tamara is busy explaining how to get her attention and S latches on immediately; graciously ordering his next round of shots and...that glass of water for me, even though I’m now pretty happy nursing on my Coke. The sweetness of the syrup is starting to weigh on my stomach, but the sugar and caffeine do have my brain working better. 

Once I finish this, I’ll probably be good to go. 

Which...isn’t going to happen as soon as I thought. She’s back in a blink, balancing a new silver tray with one hand and gripping onto the glass of water with the other before she places it right next to my cola. The two, bulky, mostly full glasses of different drinks look so weird next to each other in front of me, as if the first one wasn’t satisfactory enough for my particular taste or something that’s clearly not the case. I can’t even stop sipping on it long enough to thank her again and put a thumbs up on the counter when she asks if there’s anything else.  I’m good too. 

She walks away and I only hear him finish shot number five. 

“I’m feelin’ good, J…” S sings, breaking to chuckle at himself, and my eyebrow raises up as I smirk. 

Oh, I know you are. 

“Feelin’ really nice right now…um, anyway, so drink your fucking water, man. It helps. Any time you feel like you’re gonna throw up, take a sip of ice-cold water. You won’t feel sick anymore. It’s like impossible to throw up after drinking ice cold water. It ain’t just for nausea though. You should always drink water in between drinking alcohol…I should probably order a water too, but fuck it, I can get it later, it’s okay.”

Holy shit, you’re not letting me get away with this, are you? 

Granted, I brought this alarm upon myself. If I truly wanted to silently soldier on, I would’ve kept my mouth shut, but... it slipped out. I didn’t tell him that for sympathy or with any expectation that he was going to help me— I didn’t think there was any way that he could—it was just...a fact, one I needed him to get so he’d understand why I wouldn’t be indulging in anymore of the shots he offered. I’m not usually this sick, but I’m so used to living with nausea in general that his gentle yet firm insistence pushing me to work through it is...weird to hear. It’s been a while since someone refused to let me wallow like I always want to and forced me to get up to make myself feel better. The last one must’ve been...

Ray. 

She was a true friend for that in February, but it’s only been in this past week without her where I’ve fully comprehended that. I was very fucking sick then, but especially in my head. It’s wild to think that the tipping point of my breakdown was on the verge of being fucking Pre-Calculus, but I was so unbelievably petrified and stressed about everything back then that I could’ve been set off by anything. She saw me struggling and suffering at rock bottom and, no matter how much I tried to evade her that day, she didn’t let me get away with it. Her acts of kindness were small too, yet my debt to her will forever remain chained to my soul. However, the length of that chain is short in comparison to the one that I’ve been rapidly linking here with S. He was never supposed to be my friend at all, much less the wonderfully considerate one he’s been who is so overjoyed about our friendship that, not only did he give a beautiful toast and wish upon all of these overwhelmingly nice things for me, he keeps doing them...he’s been doing them...

And I don’t know why he does.  

Doesn’t he realize that he shouldn’t bother trying? There’s nothing for him to gain from being friends with someone who hasn’t made it easy for him— who hasn’t made it easy for anyone since I’ve spent years being so desolate and reclusive that I don’t know how to. Can’t he see that it’s a worthless pursuit? Look at me: S went through so much effort tonight so I could feel better and belong and all I’m capable of doing with it is stubbornly stirring the straw, selfishly making myself suffer more all because I just can’t fucking understand...

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

[thinkingaboutsanfrancisco]

‘It ain’t no thing’, yet, with his hand almost melodramatically touching over his heart, it’s evident that it very much is one to him and any fragment of nonchalance in his response is in place solely not to distract from his total elation while lauding me over my magnificent achievement. It’s silly; all I did was not make a fool out of myself again, but hey...that’s a tall order most days and you know what? He’s fucking right! I did something that he thinks was good and hell, I think it is too. Not the tequila, fuck that shit forever, but the sweet taste of successively learning something from someone who you want to respect you, especially when they go out of their way to teach you kindly because they genuinely want you to comprehend it. While I don’t plan on utilizing my newfound skill, I’ll revel in any rare moment of celebration while I have it, even if it is something as small and stupid as...baby’s first drink?!

Oh fuck OFFFF. 

I did NOT want to start laughing since my nausea’s still swimming around but fuck...I earned that one and I can’t resist. Proud of his tease’s effect on me, S’ beaming grin widens too and I’m struck incredulous with this flash of surrealism because…seriously, look at us. It’s Friday night and, instead of meeting my supplier in a dingy concrete cage of a parking garage, I’m drinking free tequila at a club for the first time in my life with him and we’re smiling about it as if this is a part of our typical Friday routine. 

Who the fuck would’ve thought? 

Sure as hell wasn’t me, but I’m not complaining. Hell, I wish we were like this more often. Despite my distaste for booze and blinding lights, this night’s been pretty nice so far and I owe it all to his company. Truly, he’s tried everything in his power to oblige my comfort in this place tonight, most of it unprompted and out of sheer good nature, because underneath his idiosyncratic bravado remains this cavernous, innate, sincerity– a word I cannot shake from my perception of him as of late. It’s an admirable quality anyway but if it’s risky to show in his personal life, as we excruciatingly uncovered on Sunday, it’s especially valorous of him in this callous and often cruel trade. The more time I keep spending around him, the more time I’ve been fortunate that he’s granted me suitable to witness that part of him, somehow, and I’ve come to the conclusion that he’s really not a half bad guy… 

“Aww, look at you smiling, J…you think I’m pretty alright, don’t you?” 

Oh shit, he hasn’t seen me smile too much, has he? I wasn’t actively trying to hide it, it’s just...there usually isn’t much for me to smile about nowadays and most of the time he’s seen me I’ve been beyond fucking exhausted and too irritable for my own good. I feel rather self conscious now that he’s noticed, but his question winds up exacerbating my grin regardless. 

Yeah... I can’t deny that I do.

Since my smile’s such a rare commodity afforded to him, the mere twitch is enough of a cue, “Yeah, you do! You do, I can see it…aw, do you like me, J? Do you wanna be friends?” He asks with all of the earnest, upfront, determination of a sociable Kindergartener. It’s so unadulteratedly saccharine and the purity takes me back some, yet my honesty prevails through my chuckling, “Sure.” 

I’d figured he assumed we were friends already given that he’s been so readily open with me but...you know, I like that he asked me, especially since I am in need of a friend now. Not to mention, it’s good for business….or better for it, anyway, since our mostly friendly ambiguity has garnered quite a bit on its own. More than anything, it feels good hearing him confirm that we are. I know this is merely a byproduct of his dizziness from that rapid succession of shots, but shit...even when I was a kid, way back in simpler days when I was at least damn good enough at baseball to have something to offer schoolyard society, no one was ever that giddy at the prospect of being friends with me and, maybe it’s ‘cause I’m getting a little goofy myself, but it’s really warming up my cold, dead, heart... 

“Yeah, I guess we are now...” I reiterate and hold up one of my empty shot glasses to commemorate, “I’m done with the shots for the night, but I’ll cheers to that.”  

We've come a long way.