'YES!' was Patrick's rebuttal.
'GOD!' was my counter.
'YES!' was Patrick's conclusion.
After we shook off the giggles and wasted most of the wine with spit takes, he turned to me.
'And you want to know the best part?'
'What?'
'She was the valedictorian. And everyone knew it when she went up to give her speech!'
There's nothing like the deep breaths after laughing that hard. Nothing in the world like a sore stomach for the right reasons. It was that great.
So, Patrick and I shared all the stories we could think of.
There was a kid named Barry, who used to build kites in art class. Then, after school, he would attach firecrackers to the kite and fly it and blow it up. He's now studying to be an air traffic controller.
—
And then there was this kid named Chip who spent all of his money from allowance and Christmas and birthdays to buy bug killing equipment and he would go door to door asking if he could kill the bugs for free.
—
There was a guy named Carl Burns and everyone called him C.B. And one day C.B. got so drunk at a party that he tried to 'fuck' the host's dog.
—
And there was this guy they called 'Action Jack' because supposedly he was caught masturbating at a drunk party. And at every pep rally, the kids would clap and chant. Action Jack… clap clap clap… Action Jack!
—
There were other stories and other names. Second Base Stace, who had breasts in the fourth grade and let some of the boys feel them. Vincent, who took acid and tried to flush a sofa down the toilet. Sheila, who allegedly masturbated with a hot dog and had to go to the emergency room. The list went on and on.
By the end, all I could think was what these people must feel like when they go to their class reunions. I wonder if they're embarrassed, and I wonder if that's a small price to pay for being a legend.
After we sobered up a bit with coffee and Mini Thins, Patrick drove me home. The mix tape I made for him hit a bunch of winter songs. And Patrick turned to me.
'Thanks, Charlie.'
'Sure.'
'No. I mean in the cafeteria.'
'Sure.'
After that, it was quiet. He drove me home and pulled up in the driveway. We hugged good night, and when I was just about to let go, he held me a little tighter. And he moved his face to mine. And he kissed me. A real kiss. Then, he pulled away real slow.
'I'm sorry.'
'No. That's okay.'
'Really. I'm sorry.'
'No, really. It was okay.'
So, he said 'thanks' and hugged me again. And moved in to kiss me again. And I just let him. I don't know why. We stayed in his car for a long time.
We didn't do anything other than kiss. And we didn't even do that for very long. After a while, his eyes lost the glazey numb look from the wine or the coffee or the fact that he had stayed up the night before. Then, he started crying. Then, he started talking about Brad.
And I just let him. Because that's what friends are for.
It seems like every morning since that first night, I wake up dull, and my head hurts, and I can't breathe. Patrick and I have been spending a lot of time together. We drink a lot. Actually, it's more like Patrick drinks, and I sip.
It's just hard to see a friend hurt this much. Especially when you can't do anything except 'be there.' I want to make him stop hurting, but I can't. So, I just follow him around whenever he wants to show me his world.
One night Patrick took me to this park where men go to find each other. Patrick told me that if I didn't want to be bothered by anyone that I should just not make eye contact. He said that eye contact is how you agree to fool around anonymously. Nobody talks. They just find places to go. After a while, Patrick saw someone he liked. He asked me if I needed any cigarettes, and when I said no, he patted my shoulder and walked away with this boy.
I just sat on a bench, looking around. All I saw were the shadows of people. Some on the ground. Some by a tree. Some just walking. It was so quiet. After a few minutes, I lit a cigarette, and I heard somebody whisper.
'You got an extra cigarette?' the voice asked.
I turned around and saw a man in shadow.
'Sure,' I said.
I reached out to hand the man a cigarette. He took it.
'You got a light?' he said.
'Sure,' I said, and I struck a match for him.
Instead of just leaning down and lighting the cigarette, he reached out to make a cup around the match with our hands, which is something we all do when it's windy. But it wasn't windy. I think he just wanted to touch my hands because while he was lighting the cigarette, he did it for a lot longer than necessary. Maybe he wanted me to see his face over the glow of the match. To see how handsome he was. I don't know. He did look familiar. But I couldn't figure out from where.
He blew out the match. 'Thanks.' And exhaled.
'No problem,' I said.
'Mind if I sit down?' he asked.
'Not really.'
He sat down. And said a few things. And it was his voice. I recognized his voice. So, I lit another cigarette and looked at his face again, and thought hard, and that's when I figured it out. It was the guy who does the sports on the TV news!
'Nice night,' he said.
I couldn't believe it! I guess I managed to nod because he kept talking. About sports! He kept talking about how the designated hitter in baseball was bad and why basketball was a commercial success and what teams looked promising in college football. He even mentioned my brother's name! I swear!
All I said was, 'So, what's it like being on television?'
It must have been the wrong thing to say because he just got up and walked away. It was too bad because I wanted to ask him if he thought my brother would make it to the pros.
Another night, Patrick took me to this place where they sell poppers, which is this drug you inhale. They didn't have poppers, but the guy behind the counter said that he had something that was just as good. So, Patrick bought that. It was in this aerosal can. We both took a sniff of it, and I swear we both thought we were going to die of a heart attack.
All in all, I think Patrick took me to about every place there is to go that I wouldn't have known about otherwise. There was this karaoke bar on one of the main streets in the city. And there was this dance club. And this one bathroom in this one gym. All these places. Sometimes, Patrick would pick up guys. Sometimes, he wouldn't. He said that it was hard being safe. And you never know.
The nights he would pick up someone always made him sad. It's hard, too, because Patrick began every night really excited. He always said he felt free. And tonight was his destiny. And things like that. But by the end of
