Okay, so this chapter gets more to the point, I promise! Sorry about the
last one, because it was kind of filler, but I wanted to get across how
Roger changed and I thought that just throwing you into a new school year
where Roger is suddenly hot would be a little jarring.
Eight: Mark
Junior Year 1986-87
By November we are both infamous. Somehow by junior year we have both grown in status from Relatively Invisible to Notorious. We have made names for ourselves, both of us. Never mind that his is vastly different from mine. I'm that creepy pothead kid. The one who skips physics to smoke and takes those trippy pictures when you aren't looking. I am the freak who sits in his car with the windows rolled up, decoding Doors lyrics with Chris and Sharon, tapping ash from the pipe's screen, licking the rolling papers like I was born with a joint in my hand.
And Roger.....Roger is the Most Changed. Some how grown in three months from sixteen and awkward to handsome, dangerous, looks too old for high school. Roger famous already for his fantastic guitar solos, for pensive songs. Famous for lines of crack at Tim Mair's house, for drugs dangerous enough to make me wince. He's changed and suddenly it's not just my overly cautious parents who don't want him coming over, it's every mother and father in Scarsdale. From what I hear (and I hear a lot) he's slept his way through half the junior girls by Thanksgiving.
And I can't help worrying. I don't want to, really I don't, but I can't help it. It's easy enough to say you don't give a damn about someone anymore. Easy to say, but try to put that into action when that person was your best friend for the best part of a year. Just try. See how you do. I may be a pothead, but I'm not as bad as some. I know enough not to come to class stoned everyday (though it does help me get through math) and I've sworn off anything stronger. But Roger....he's going to fast. I want to tell him to stop. I can almost see something horrible careening towards him and my impulse is to pull him out of harms way for a nice long talk. But it's not that easy. We haven't spoken since last year and now it's too late. We don't even know each other anymore. I didn't recognize him on the first day of school, not at first. I saw this guy, he looked familiar and I wondered if he was from Pittsburgh or something. Then I realized.....I just couldn't get over it. No one could. He looked so different.
So this is how we have changed. I take my pictures. Spend the best part of my life in a dark room tinkering with them. As a result I look almost albino and smell like developing fluid, cigarettes, unwashed teenage boy, and pot all the time. I know this isn't a pleasant mixture and I also know that aside from the fact that I've gained a reputation as being Totally Creepy, my smell is what keeps people away from me. Honestly, I like it that way. Sharon and Chris are the only ones who don't seem to mind, and they're fine company. Chris's brain is so fried that he can barely hold a conversation and Sharon is so busy being depressed that she doesn't talk too much. We're a perfect trio.
I can't lie, though. I still think about Roger and Laura a lot. I miss them both like crazy. I've written Laura, but so far she hasn't written back. This leaves two possibilities, either she's out of the psyche ward or she's dead. It's not possible that she hasn't written back because she doesn't want to. Laura told me to write, and she never says anything that she doesn't mean.
As for Roger, well.....I don't see him so much. We're in the same classes but we never sit together. We don't talk we don't look we just exist side by side like two strangers. Some days I think it's better that way, but others all I want is a best friend again. It sucks, basically. But what can I do? He'd hat me as much as he hates his grandfather if he knew why we really moved to Scarsdale. He'd despise me and it would be him doing the leaving. That's why I had to do it first. I had to beat him to the punch. Does that make me a bad person? Well, yes actually it does. But I try to ignore it.
I think about this stuff a lot. Mostly during class, if I'm there. The only class I really pay attention to is English. I know I'm doing badly. My grades for this year so far really suck in all my other subjects and to quote my dad "You'll never get into an Ivy League University with grades like these, Mark!". "You know what your problem is, Mark? This camera! All you do is take pictures and write short stores. Pictures and stories won't put food on your plate, Mark."
Well maybe I don't want to go to college. Maybe I can do with out three square meals. All I really want to do is take pictures. I want to take as many as I can. I want to capture every second of life and look at it. Then I want to write about it. Maybe if I do that, I can understand it better.
Of course I'll never say that. I'm not stupid, contrary to popular family belief. I'm not a slacker, either. If I were a slacker I wouldn't bother with the pictures or the stories. They're important. They really are.
My math teacher, however, doesn't see it that way.
"Mr. Cohen, what are you writing?"
I stare up at her. I feel like a deer caught in the headlights of a semi. She's never asked me a question before. "Notes?"
"Do you take notes so studiously every day?" she asks, peering at me over her glasses. I'm not sure where she's going with this, but my spider sense tells me that it's a trap.
"Yes ma'am." I push my glasses up my nose and try desperately to look innocent. I wonder if it's working.
"Mr. Cohen, could you tell me please, what was the last grade you received on a test for me?" she asks, the hint of a smirk tugging the corner of her mouth.
So that's where she's taking this. Shit. "Um...an E." I mumble into my paper. This is humiliating. I used to get really good grades in math.
"Hmmm. Class, let's tackle a little logic problem shall we? Mr. Davis!" She whacks Roger's desk with her ruler and he jolts out of hibernation with a startled snort. The class giggles.
"George Washington!" he blurts out. A girl in the back of the room snorts. The math teacher frowns.
"Mr. Davis, would you mind answering a question for me?" I never realized how many questions this woman actually asks.
Roger tugs at his collar and swallows hard. Math is not his subject. "Sure?" He says. He adopts the expression of the bravely doomed. He is a prisoner being lead to the chopping block. He knows his fate, and he is resigned.
"Good. Good. Alright, Mr. Davis. We have been in this class for three and a half months, correct?"
"Yes ma'am."
"And during this time, how many tests have we had?"
"Um.....er.....about ten?"
"Roughly, yes. Now say Mr. Cohen has been taking studious notes since the beginning of the year. How would you expect him to do on his tests?"
Roger glances at me and our eyes meet. This is the first real contact we've had since school began. Once again I'm struck by how different he looks.
"Well.....well that depends, ma'am." Says Roger, surprising us all. How does that depend? The answer seems obvious to me. It's clearly obvious to our math teacher. I know Roger isn't that dumb.
"How does it depend, Mr. Davis?" asks the teacher, glaring at him.
"Well there are a lot of factors to take into consideration here. I mean, there are infinite possibilities, aren't there? Maybe Mark has terrible handwriting and he takes the notes, but then he can't read them. If he can't read them, he can't study from them. Or maybe Mark's a terrible note taker. Maybe he's the worst note taker in the world so they don't make any sense at all. Or maybe it's a combination of both. Or it could be," he shoots a grin at me. I remember that grin and I can't help but return it. I know something is coming. Something really, really good. "That Mark is the world champion note taker of the universe. His notes are fantastic. His handwriting is superb. However, if that's the case, then why is he doing so badly on tests? That's why you asked the question isn't it? Because he's getting really bad grades. Well aside from the fact that he's a pothead" he pronounces it PO-theed and the class giggles, "which actually wouldn't be such a problem because he's really smart any way, there must be another factor. There's an x factor in here somewhere that's keeping him from doing well, and I think that' I've spotted it." Roger sits up very straight, drawing himself up to full height and raising his chin triumphantly, "The problem, the x factor, is that you are a bad teacher." The room goes dead quiet.
"Excuse me, Mr. Davis?" says the math teacher. Her voice is dripping venom.
"He said, Madam Hitler, that you are a bad teacher." Is that me talking? Oh, God, yes. "You are, in fact, a terrible teacher. You are the worst teacher I have ever had. I figured it out on day one and gave up on you. So no, it's not notes I'm taking and even if they were they wouldn't make any sense because you're just so pathetically bad at your job. I'm sure Roger figured out the same thing, which is why he's using your class as a chance to sleep. Am I right, Mr. Davis?"
Roger forces his face into a look of mock seriousness, "You most certainly are, Mr. Cohen. In fact, I tire of this dreary place. Shall we retire?"
"Yes I think we shall."
And then we stand and stride off into the sunset. I know we're going to face some serious consequences for this. I don't like to think about the possibility of being expelled, but it's pretty real. Maybe we'll only get suspended.
We walk side by side down the halls in total silence. Every now and then we catch each other's eye and our faces split into these huge grins. My the time we get out to the parking lot, my face hurts from smiling.
"I just got my license. What say we go somewhere?" asks Roger, fishing car keys out of his pocket.
"Sure," I say. I'm beginning to feel uncomfortable again. By the time we slide into his car and pull out of the parking lot all I want to do is get out and run away.
We drive in silence for a long time. Roger seems to have a destination in mind. Eventually we stop by the old playground down the block from his house. It's fallen into severe disrepair over the years. The swing sets are rusting, the wooden jungle gym is eaten by termites, and it's covered with graffiti. Mostly it's used now by kids like us.
We settle on the ancient merry-go-round and spin slowly and squeakily for a while, puffing quietly on our cigarettes, sifting quietly through our thoughts.
"Thank you," I say quietly after about fifteen minutes. "For today."
"No problem," he says quietly.
"It could be. What d'you think they'll do to us?" I ask, fiddling with the frayed hem of my sweater.
He shrugs, "Suspend us? I don't think they can expel us. We didn't threaten her or anything."
We sit quietly for another five minutes. Suddenly it just pops out of my mouth. "Sorry."
"What for?"
"For.....for freaking out. For most of last year. For a lot of this year. Sorry. I just....." I shake my head. I feel like an idiot.
He shakes his head, "I just don't understand." He glances at me from under his hair. How many times have I seen him do that? "I was just.....I only wanted to tell you how I felt. I thought you'd agree with me. I thought everyone except really morbid people thought suicide was bad and stupid."
I sigh and pull out another smoke, "I know. But there are things you don't understand. I'm so sorry about you're granddad. Really I am. You shouldn't have had to see that. But you don't know what he was feeling. You really don't."
"Oh yeah? And you do?" he asks with an edge of anger in his voice.
"Yes!" I snap. I'm starting to get mad. Not scared, mad. He just won't listen! "I know exactly how he felt. Believe me, I do. I know exactly what he was thinking. And I know he would have regretted it. Had he lived, believe me he would have regretted it forever. But people like you! People like you just wouldn't have let me forget! You would have brought it up again and again and I feel guilty all the time! You're just like my dad! My fucking dad!"
I hadn't realized I was standing till now.
"Jesus, Mark. Did you.....?"
"It's why we moved to Scarsdale," I say more quietly. I sit back down. Roger paces in front of me.
"You tried to kill yourself?" he asks. "You?"
"Yeah," it comes out in a tired sigh. I'm so tired. I'm just so tired.
"How?" he whispers. He sinks down next to me. Suddenly he seems so much younger.
"Do you honestly want an answer to that?" I ask.
"Yes."
"Fifty asprin. One bottle of Jack Daniels." I chew a nail. Maybe he'll hit me. I'd deserve it.
"Why?"
"It's too much to explain. I can't even try. I was just so bored with everything.....no that's not right. It's more than that. I just can't explain it." I shake my head and laugh bitterly. "I'm sorry. Now you know why I was avoiding you. I knew you'd find out and I knew you wouldn't want to be friends with me anymore so I tried to keep away from you. But you know now so.....please don't tell the whole school. I don't think my family can handle another move."
And then he says the last thing I expected him to say. "But you're still alive. How are you still alive?"
"After I'd taken them all, I realized what a fucking idiot I was so I walked into my sister's room and told her to call 911. Then I fainted. I woke up when they were pumping my stomach. Trust me, that is not a pleasant experience." I glance over at him. He doesn't look angry, just thoughtful.
"Were you in.....like a psych ward or something?" I asks, cautiously.
"Yeah. Western Pennsylvania Psychiatric. Lovely place. The tater-tots are shaped like smiley faces."
He snorts. "Sounds comparable with the Hilton."
"Oh, yes. I especially like the relaxation therapy."
"What's that?"
"Thorazine."
"You've been on Thorazine?" he asks. He just sounds curious now, not scared or judgmental.
"Yeah. Just once. I had a major freak out."
"What's it like?"
I squint, trying to remember. "Well it tastes horrible. But it's like....the world gets softer. Your feet are ten times bigger and everything is made out of squishy mattresses. Basically it just takes you way out of it."
He shakes his head. "Wow man, that's really.....amazing."
"Don't you hate me?" I'm so confused. He sounds friendly. I just don't understand.
"No, of course not. I....you're my best friend. I know you outside of this and now I know you in this context too and.....well you're the same person and.....maybe I'm the one who needs to think a little harder. Maybe I have to learn to have some sympathy. I can be sympathetic without agreeing with it, can't I?"
"Yeah." I'm smiling so hard my face feels ready to crack. "Fuck, yeah."
"You won't," he swallows hard, "you wont try it again?"
"Never." And as I say it, I know it's true.
My grandmother once told me that at one point in his or her life, every person has their own small Armageddon. A time when some part of us dies, and another part forms. We grow up and we fight, and it shapes us forever. I thought that mine was the day I took all those aspirin and I thought it ended when I left western psyche. What I didn't realize was that it hadn't ended until today, here, on this rusty merry-go-round. I fought and I won, but I didn't do it alone. I guess you can never do it alone. And it's in this moment when I give up my wishes and decide that living and doing are the only solutions. If I want understand life, I have to stop wishing for things to change and do something about them. I have to stop running away. I have to stick with people and have faith. Always have faith.
Note: so that's it. Soooooooo sappy. Sappy like a tree full of sappy sap! Sorry, but I cant help it sometimes. Hope you enjoyed and as always, thank everyone so much for reviewing. The only thing that would make me happier than lots and lots of reviews would be if Johnny Depp showed up and decided to live in my attic.
Eight: Mark
Junior Year 1986-87
By November we are both infamous. Somehow by junior year we have both grown in status from Relatively Invisible to Notorious. We have made names for ourselves, both of us. Never mind that his is vastly different from mine. I'm that creepy pothead kid. The one who skips physics to smoke and takes those trippy pictures when you aren't looking. I am the freak who sits in his car with the windows rolled up, decoding Doors lyrics with Chris and Sharon, tapping ash from the pipe's screen, licking the rolling papers like I was born with a joint in my hand.
And Roger.....Roger is the Most Changed. Some how grown in three months from sixteen and awkward to handsome, dangerous, looks too old for high school. Roger famous already for his fantastic guitar solos, for pensive songs. Famous for lines of crack at Tim Mair's house, for drugs dangerous enough to make me wince. He's changed and suddenly it's not just my overly cautious parents who don't want him coming over, it's every mother and father in Scarsdale. From what I hear (and I hear a lot) he's slept his way through half the junior girls by Thanksgiving.
And I can't help worrying. I don't want to, really I don't, but I can't help it. It's easy enough to say you don't give a damn about someone anymore. Easy to say, but try to put that into action when that person was your best friend for the best part of a year. Just try. See how you do. I may be a pothead, but I'm not as bad as some. I know enough not to come to class stoned everyday (though it does help me get through math) and I've sworn off anything stronger. But Roger....he's going to fast. I want to tell him to stop. I can almost see something horrible careening towards him and my impulse is to pull him out of harms way for a nice long talk. But it's not that easy. We haven't spoken since last year and now it's too late. We don't even know each other anymore. I didn't recognize him on the first day of school, not at first. I saw this guy, he looked familiar and I wondered if he was from Pittsburgh or something. Then I realized.....I just couldn't get over it. No one could. He looked so different.
So this is how we have changed. I take my pictures. Spend the best part of my life in a dark room tinkering with them. As a result I look almost albino and smell like developing fluid, cigarettes, unwashed teenage boy, and pot all the time. I know this isn't a pleasant mixture and I also know that aside from the fact that I've gained a reputation as being Totally Creepy, my smell is what keeps people away from me. Honestly, I like it that way. Sharon and Chris are the only ones who don't seem to mind, and they're fine company. Chris's brain is so fried that he can barely hold a conversation and Sharon is so busy being depressed that she doesn't talk too much. We're a perfect trio.
I can't lie, though. I still think about Roger and Laura a lot. I miss them both like crazy. I've written Laura, but so far she hasn't written back. This leaves two possibilities, either she's out of the psyche ward or she's dead. It's not possible that she hasn't written back because she doesn't want to. Laura told me to write, and she never says anything that she doesn't mean.
As for Roger, well.....I don't see him so much. We're in the same classes but we never sit together. We don't talk we don't look we just exist side by side like two strangers. Some days I think it's better that way, but others all I want is a best friend again. It sucks, basically. But what can I do? He'd hat me as much as he hates his grandfather if he knew why we really moved to Scarsdale. He'd despise me and it would be him doing the leaving. That's why I had to do it first. I had to beat him to the punch. Does that make me a bad person? Well, yes actually it does. But I try to ignore it.
I think about this stuff a lot. Mostly during class, if I'm there. The only class I really pay attention to is English. I know I'm doing badly. My grades for this year so far really suck in all my other subjects and to quote my dad "You'll never get into an Ivy League University with grades like these, Mark!". "You know what your problem is, Mark? This camera! All you do is take pictures and write short stores. Pictures and stories won't put food on your plate, Mark."
Well maybe I don't want to go to college. Maybe I can do with out three square meals. All I really want to do is take pictures. I want to take as many as I can. I want to capture every second of life and look at it. Then I want to write about it. Maybe if I do that, I can understand it better.
Of course I'll never say that. I'm not stupid, contrary to popular family belief. I'm not a slacker, either. If I were a slacker I wouldn't bother with the pictures or the stories. They're important. They really are.
My math teacher, however, doesn't see it that way.
"Mr. Cohen, what are you writing?"
I stare up at her. I feel like a deer caught in the headlights of a semi. She's never asked me a question before. "Notes?"
"Do you take notes so studiously every day?" she asks, peering at me over her glasses. I'm not sure where she's going with this, but my spider sense tells me that it's a trap.
"Yes ma'am." I push my glasses up my nose and try desperately to look innocent. I wonder if it's working.
"Mr. Cohen, could you tell me please, what was the last grade you received on a test for me?" she asks, the hint of a smirk tugging the corner of her mouth.
So that's where she's taking this. Shit. "Um...an E." I mumble into my paper. This is humiliating. I used to get really good grades in math.
"Hmmm. Class, let's tackle a little logic problem shall we? Mr. Davis!" She whacks Roger's desk with her ruler and he jolts out of hibernation with a startled snort. The class giggles.
"George Washington!" he blurts out. A girl in the back of the room snorts. The math teacher frowns.
"Mr. Davis, would you mind answering a question for me?" I never realized how many questions this woman actually asks.
Roger tugs at his collar and swallows hard. Math is not his subject. "Sure?" He says. He adopts the expression of the bravely doomed. He is a prisoner being lead to the chopping block. He knows his fate, and he is resigned.
"Good. Good. Alright, Mr. Davis. We have been in this class for three and a half months, correct?"
"Yes ma'am."
"And during this time, how many tests have we had?"
"Um.....er.....about ten?"
"Roughly, yes. Now say Mr. Cohen has been taking studious notes since the beginning of the year. How would you expect him to do on his tests?"
Roger glances at me and our eyes meet. This is the first real contact we've had since school began. Once again I'm struck by how different he looks.
"Well.....well that depends, ma'am." Says Roger, surprising us all. How does that depend? The answer seems obvious to me. It's clearly obvious to our math teacher. I know Roger isn't that dumb.
"How does it depend, Mr. Davis?" asks the teacher, glaring at him.
"Well there are a lot of factors to take into consideration here. I mean, there are infinite possibilities, aren't there? Maybe Mark has terrible handwriting and he takes the notes, but then he can't read them. If he can't read them, he can't study from them. Or maybe Mark's a terrible note taker. Maybe he's the worst note taker in the world so they don't make any sense at all. Or maybe it's a combination of both. Or it could be," he shoots a grin at me. I remember that grin and I can't help but return it. I know something is coming. Something really, really good. "That Mark is the world champion note taker of the universe. His notes are fantastic. His handwriting is superb. However, if that's the case, then why is he doing so badly on tests? That's why you asked the question isn't it? Because he's getting really bad grades. Well aside from the fact that he's a pothead" he pronounces it PO-theed and the class giggles, "which actually wouldn't be such a problem because he's really smart any way, there must be another factor. There's an x factor in here somewhere that's keeping him from doing well, and I think that' I've spotted it." Roger sits up very straight, drawing himself up to full height and raising his chin triumphantly, "The problem, the x factor, is that you are a bad teacher." The room goes dead quiet.
"Excuse me, Mr. Davis?" says the math teacher. Her voice is dripping venom.
"He said, Madam Hitler, that you are a bad teacher." Is that me talking? Oh, God, yes. "You are, in fact, a terrible teacher. You are the worst teacher I have ever had. I figured it out on day one and gave up on you. So no, it's not notes I'm taking and even if they were they wouldn't make any sense because you're just so pathetically bad at your job. I'm sure Roger figured out the same thing, which is why he's using your class as a chance to sleep. Am I right, Mr. Davis?"
Roger forces his face into a look of mock seriousness, "You most certainly are, Mr. Cohen. In fact, I tire of this dreary place. Shall we retire?"
"Yes I think we shall."
And then we stand and stride off into the sunset. I know we're going to face some serious consequences for this. I don't like to think about the possibility of being expelled, but it's pretty real. Maybe we'll only get suspended.
We walk side by side down the halls in total silence. Every now and then we catch each other's eye and our faces split into these huge grins. My the time we get out to the parking lot, my face hurts from smiling.
"I just got my license. What say we go somewhere?" asks Roger, fishing car keys out of his pocket.
"Sure," I say. I'm beginning to feel uncomfortable again. By the time we slide into his car and pull out of the parking lot all I want to do is get out and run away.
We drive in silence for a long time. Roger seems to have a destination in mind. Eventually we stop by the old playground down the block from his house. It's fallen into severe disrepair over the years. The swing sets are rusting, the wooden jungle gym is eaten by termites, and it's covered with graffiti. Mostly it's used now by kids like us.
We settle on the ancient merry-go-round and spin slowly and squeakily for a while, puffing quietly on our cigarettes, sifting quietly through our thoughts.
"Thank you," I say quietly after about fifteen minutes. "For today."
"No problem," he says quietly.
"It could be. What d'you think they'll do to us?" I ask, fiddling with the frayed hem of my sweater.
He shrugs, "Suspend us? I don't think they can expel us. We didn't threaten her or anything."
We sit quietly for another five minutes. Suddenly it just pops out of my mouth. "Sorry."
"What for?"
"For.....for freaking out. For most of last year. For a lot of this year. Sorry. I just....." I shake my head. I feel like an idiot.
He shakes his head, "I just don't understand." He glances at me from under his hair. How many times have I seen him do that? "I was just.....I only wanted to tell you how I felt. I thought you'd agree with me. I thought everyone except really morbid people thought suicide was bad and stupid."
I sigh and pull out another smoke, "I know. But there are things you don't understand. I'm so sorry about you're granddad. Really I am. You shouldn't have had to see that. But you don't know what he was feeling. You really don't."
"Oh yeah? And you do?" he asks with an edge of anger in his voice.
"Yes!" I snap. I'm starting to get mad. Not scared, mad. He just won't listen! "I know exactly how he felt. Believe me, I do. I know exactly what he was thinking. And I know he would have regretted it. Had he lived, believe me he would have regretted it forever. But people like you! People like you just wouldn't have let me forget! You would have brought it up again and again and I feel guilty all the time! You're just like my dad! My fucking dad!"
I hadn't realized I was standing till now.
"Jesus, Mark. Did you.....?"
"It's why we moved to Scarsdale," I say more quietly. I sit back down. Roger paces in front of me.
"You tried to kill yourself?" he asks. "You?"
"Yeah," it comes out in a tired sigh. I'm so tired. I'm just so tired.
"How?" he whispers. He sinks down next to me. Suddenly he seems so much younger.
"Do you honestly want an answer to that?" I ask.
"Yes."
"Fifty asprin. One bottle of Jack Daniels." I chew a nail. Maybe he'll hit me. I'd deserve it.
"Why?"
"It's too much to explain. I can't even try. I was just so bored with everything.....no that's not right. It's more than that. I just can't explain it." I shake my head and laugh bitterly. "I'm sorry. Now you know why I was avoiding you. I knew you'd find out and I knew you wouldn't want to be friends with me anymore so I tried to keep away from you. But you know now so.....please don't tell the whole school. I don't think my family can handle another move."
And then he says the last thing I expected him to say. "But you're still alive. How are you still alive?"
"After I'd taken them all, I realized what a fucking idiot I was so I walked into my sister's room and told her to call 911. Then I fainted. I woke up when they were pumping my stomach. Trust me, that is not a pleasant experience." I glance over at him. He doesn't look angry, just thoughtful.
"Were you in.....like a psych ward or something?" I asks, cautiously.
"Yeah. Western Pennsylvania Psychiatric. Lovely place. The tater-tots are shaped like smiley faces."
He snorts. "Sounds comparable with the Hilton."
"Oh, yes. I especially like the relaxation therapy."
"What's that?"
"Thorazine."
"You've been on Thorazine?" he asks. He just sounds curious now, not scared or judgmental.
"Yeah. Just once. I had a major freak out."
"What's it like?"
I squint, trying to remember. "Well it tastes horrible. But it's like....the world gets softer. Your feet are ten times bigger and everything is made out of squishy mattresses. Basically it just takes you way out of it."
He shakes his head. "Wow man, that's really.....amazing."
"Don't you hate me?" I'm so confused. He sounds friendly. I just don't understand.
"No, of course not. I....you're my best friend. I know you outside of this and now I know you in this context too and.....well you're the same person and.....maybe I'm the one who needs to think a little harder. Maybe I have to learn to have some sympathy. I can be sympathetic without agreeing with it, can't I?"
"Yeah." I'm smiling so hard my face feels ready to crack. "Fuck, yeah."
"You won't," he swallows hard, "you wont try it again?"
"Never." And as I say it, I know it's true.
My grandmother once told me that at one point in his or her life, every person has their own small Armageddon. A time when some part of us dies, and another part forms. We grow up and we fight, and it shapes us forever. I thought that mine was the day I took all those aspirin and I thought it ended when I left western psyche. What I didn't realize was that it hadn't ended until today, here, on this rusty merry-go-round. I fought and I won, but I didn't do it alone. I guess you can never do it alone. And it's in this moment when I give up my wishes and decide that living and doing are the only solutions. If I want understand life, I have to stop wishing for things to change and do something about them. I have to stop running away. I have to stick with people and have faith. Always have faith.
Note: so that's it. Soooooooo sappy. Sappy like a tree full of sappy sap! Sorry, but I cant help it sometimes. Hope you enjoyed and as always, thank everyone so much for reviewing. The only thing that would make me happier than lots and lots of reviews would be if Johnny Depp showed up and decided to live in my attic.
