#04172015

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.

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.

“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...

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.

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.

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. 

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... 

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.