Surrender

I came around the corner fast, a woman with a purpose, looking up long enough to see him approaching me. I backtracked and hid beside the closed antique shop, my heart in my stomach, jerking wildly about in the same fashion of that one time I got the Thai food funk from the sizzling sautéed tofu and green bean platter at my favorite restaurant. His swaggered approach caused this effect every time.

The deepest longing inside me to rush to him and get a long deep hug of a benefit less friendship was at odds with the reason I was traveling with such a frantic purpose. I had just procured a bottle of Percocet and I didn’t want to share them with anyone, even James.

My heart won the battle with my opiate addicted mind. I rushed forward; it had been too long. His eyes lit up when they met mine, blue eyes sparkling, every inch of him the hot Italian bad boy.

His trench coat flapped against mine in the wind as we embraced. Trench coats are the hottest attire; we could have fucked right there as people walked past us in either direction. To the casual observer it might have appeared as if we couldn’t stop hugging.

Decades had passed since I had first met him, the best friend of my then boyfriend; I had secretly been harboring a deep rooted longing to make out with him for hours, allowing him to drink from my mouth until he’d filled himself to overflowing. Instead we had fallen into a brother sister friendship of a depth that defied the stretches of absence that occasionally punctuated our lives.

Clutching hands now, I slipped him a smoke as we walked and he ignored my lighter, instead tapping his tip against my lit cherry. In the window of the antique shop I saw a pair of women’s shoes circa 1800 sometime, tiny and white, delicate. Next to them were a comb, mirror, and brush set, their backs ornately carved. Everything was carefully arranged next to a pitcher and wash basin with little pink flowers on the sides.

He stood silently beside me, allowing me to gaze at the pretty things as long as I wanted to. “Do you want those?” he whispered next to my ear,” we will come back tomorrow and I’ll buy them for you.” I smiled, remembering the night we’d gone out to dinner together. Through the late night rain we had hurried to slip into a restaurant before they closed. After we’d eaten he asked me if I wanted anything else. Our server wanted to go home, wiping down already clean tables near us, shooting us occasional dirty looks.

Empowered by his easy manner I ordered a cup of coffee. The server set it down, lukewarm in a Styrofoam cup, a to-go hint. I reached for the cup, rising up from my chair, as he raised his arm slowly and called out for a proper cup of hot coffee, served in a mug, the way coffee should be served. So brazen. We sat there silently as I sipped from the white mug, smiling my stupid silly grin, hands warm around hot porcelain, candlelight glowing at only our table.

Looking into the antique store window I smiled that same stupid grin; I know I did. He was homeless again; I had smelled it deep in his skin as we’d embraced, allowed myself to inhale his body odor: the stale tobacco and sweat, cheap beer, whiskey, dirt, and that touch of sperm he’d always worn like cologne. He had a freshly fucked smell, always.

My mind went from all those pretty things in the window back to the Percocet in my pocket. I had planned on chewing four of them right away and then swallowing two whole later. I flashed them at James. “I have a place around the corner,” he pulled my surprised arm.

As we walked he told his tale of bungee jumping into rock bottom, no quest for pity, just stating facts. I examined his profile and noticed the toll the years had taken. His skin was pockmarked, but I never remember acne. A love for food didn’t show in his gaunt face, hollows around his eyes suggesting a plethora of hungers. “God, he looks rough”, I thought. Our spent youth seemed to be there too: Levi 501s, fringed leather jackets, canned beer, Dark Side of the Moon, sex before AIDS, Atari, cruising too fast down slick roads after smoking pot, Aqua Net, wondering what the hell we were going to do with our lives after high school, Sunday mornings in church with our families and private hangovers, wine cooler bottles scattered across lawns behind houses we didn’t hold keys to, The Wall, knowing our fathers were disappointed and our mothers heartbroken, but most of all the laughter, somehow.

As we arrived at an apartment complex with a door opening right up onto the sidewalk it occurred to me that he might have been thinking similar things about my appearance. His hand turned the knob knowing it to be unlocked. I stepped into the narrow studio apartment. The one and only room contained three twin beds around the walls with a couch, coffee table and TV in the middle.

James headed to the toilet; “You have to shit sitting sideways”, he called over his shoulder. The little beds made me think of the seven dwarfs, except the three in this abode were Junkie, Al Coholy, and Porny, judging by the garbage scattered across the floor. I found what I knew to be James’ unmade bed and sat without trepidation. A battered wood box turned on its side served as a nightstand.  A well worn copy of Milton’s Paradise Lost sat waiting for eager thumbs.

When he returned we got straight to the business of getting high. He had a kit and liked the needle. I like the needle just fine if someone else does the work; plus I tend to lose things, so carrying a kit is just another umbrella forgotten on the bus.  When we were finished we moved to the couch and he popped porn in the VCR. I have no idea how long we sat there slumped side by side on the couch; I was in the middle of the meltdown that still makes my mouth water to recollect. I turned to him and pointed at the TV, “Hey, I know how this one ends. He pulls out and comes on her back.” We laughed. I felt so warm.

Hint taken, he hit stop and we got up and stretched. I walked back over to Paradise Lost and picked it up. He was eager now to explain to me the experience of only owning one book and reading it over and over again. I really wish I could tell you now all that he said but what remains is the way that I felt watching his eyes animate.

I reached for him and told him how horribly long I had wanted to kiss him.

I have his obituary saved on my computer. At first I read it several times a day but now that the seasons have passed I only look at it from time to time, as well as the accompanying newspaper stories regarding his death. The words tell me a lot of things I wouldn’t have known and inside of me I hold the things that remain just for me: sneaking out of my bed to watch him passed out on my couch, the way he never teased me for sucking at basketball, playing cards for hours, cooking dinners only he showed up at my door to share with me, watching him hold my babies when they were tiny, (but then reprimanding me for never putting them down), the times he comforted me over heartbreaks with cases of beer and strolls to Starbucks to pick up coffee to sip while we browsed in Powell’s, and that one night he told me that I was never going to be a woman who would get over a past lover, but that life goes on anyway.

Tagged as: Death, Drug Addition, friendship, grief, Kiss, Love, Paradise Lost, Porn, Sex