Laying down and propped up at an uncomfortable angle, his shoulders would shrug and his chin would sink down touching the top of his chest as he exhaled the smoke on his mattress. Silence. His lips we’re stone, and his eyes we’re heavily loaded with the burden sobriety brought forth since his lifestyle began to consume him. His left hand traced the indentations on the wall delicately, and it was second nature for him now to bring the habit back and forth from his right hand, to his mouth, to the ashtray and back to his mouth once more.
“Is everything okay?” I nearly sneezed the question.
His delayed response was no hesitation or misunderstanding, it was a dull, dark stare that spoke for itself. He adjusted his navy blue tee shirt, lifting himself to straighten the creases,
“Huh?” He flicked the decaying paper into the turtle tray, and then pinched the pieces of ash that drifted onto his stomach and placed them there as well.
“I mean, are you okay? You seem… different.” The thick black eyelashes that hovered over these once lively brown eyes had become something they never intended to be. I suppose when you live your life according to an unwritten anarchist code of morals, the ignorance of “not giving a shit” is bound to catch up to a person at some point.
“Yeah, I’m okay. Just tired. What do you mean by different?” A hollowed expression turned its attention towards me, and for the first time I’d looked him directly in the eyes since my visit. My tear docks began to tingle, and my insides felt as though they’d shifted as a cold sense of realization shivered down my spine. This was not the boy I knew, this was not the boy I fell in love with many years ago; this was not a boy at all. His unshaven face made him look a little more sophisticated, and with his hair messily flipped over left and right, I stared and the creature that set the standards for every failed relationship I had since him. His tattoos peered through little sections of skin left uncovered: a puzzle piece between his cotton shirt and black denim pants, multiple childish cacti branded on the inside of his arm, and a prowling panther somewhere crawling on his skin. I used to always love how dirty he was, probably because there we’re not many people socially acceptably dirtier than I was, (a virtue understood only by myself).
His presence screamed trouble the moment I met him, but the forbidden apple once studied and examined isn’t so bad tasting, once you get past the bitterness, right? Wrong. The years that followed consisted of a tragically heartbreaking high-school love novel that wasn’t well written enough to get published and had a really shitty ending. The one who you share the firsts of many things with will always have a dear place in your heart, had it not been for him I wouldn’t have my first show booked, nor would I be as in tuned with the local music scene, and on a more internal level, I wouldn’t be so strong from all of the concrete-impact I received while knowing him. I’ve got to hand it to him, he absolutely influenced who I am today, and I thank-as well as resent- him for that.
I specifically remember a day where he promised to stick around; we made plans to plant a garden below a rusted bridge that trailed off of an old unoccupied road. The town creek ran beneath it and cattails ran along the edge of the water. Sticks gathered and formed a dam a little ways down, allowing any trash to be seized before our sight. A steep climb was in order before you reached level ground, but once we looked up and saw the towering, green plants, illuminated by the sun, we knew it was going to be a spot we declared our own.
“I’ve been reading about this thing called ‘Gorilla Gardening” The words trickled off of his lips like the stream flowing beside us. His pitch was higher then, it was after puberty of course, but looking back I realize why he’d developed the nickname, “Squeaks”. His eyes peered up from the water, now looking at me, “It’s when people in cities get all of these fucking plants and they just plant them all over, anywhere. Just because. They get rid of weeds in those crappy plant boxes that industries try and decorate with and they plant these extravagant gardens full of flowers illegally.”
Illegally was the key word, it always was for him. He’d read about this beneficial act of rebellion in a magazine on his way home from Paris a few weeks earlier.
It was a week before he returned home from Europe, I remember finally feeling strong again. I felt independent and empowered by creativity and the idea of being alone… until, I read 1 New Message. I stared at the e-mail for about 10 minutes, biting my thumb, playing with a Rubix cube and weighing out the pros and cons.
Pros: He is the one making the effort. Not you. You have the power to either reply or ignore it.
Cons: If you read this, you might want to consider the definition of insanity, doing the same thing repetitively and expecting different results. He wants you back? Great, He will also want you GONE sooner or later as well. DO NOT READ THIS!!.
I wrote a quick e-mail to my psyche:
Dear Self,
I apologize beforehand for any physical recklessness this decision may evoke in the future. Keep in mind, (pun intended) you can still be just as strong with or without him.
Love,
Us
Click. Four page scrolls worth of writing, telling me about Europe, himself and how much he wanted to see me.
After the day beneath the bridge, I went back, planted the first fern and didn’t hear from him for about three months. This pattern happened for three consecutive years until finally I had enough. I was sick of lowering myself to his pathetic level and at last we established friendship. Although our adventures lacked the romantic sense of love and wonder they once had, we still managed to journey through endless days of painting, playing music and casual intimacy without hesitation.
It had been years since we talked about the object of, “us”. Which is why I was so surprised to hear the tone of his voice when he called me asking me to talk. Keep in mind, we always talk, it’s what consumes most of our time, but somehow when I heard his voice I knew what this rendezvous was going to consist of.
We climbed an old leafless tree with thick branches one hot summer day, and I listened as he told me stories of the thunderstorm he once watched there, and how strikingly beautiful the world seems when threatened.
“I didn’t come here to talk about all of this. I was talking to my friend the other day because I had this dream about you. It was a still framed, black and white image.. It was clearly you, and it was clearly me- but we were old, on some cluttered, wooden porch.”
“….” My response.
“You can’t tell me that you don’t have a doubt in your mind that we we’re supposed to be together. I mean I know we’re both in relationships but it doesn’t even matter. We both know that whatever bullshit people come in and out of our lives were the only constant each other has and, I love you. I’ve seen you grow into a woman, and I’ve grown up a lot. We both have, together, and I’m just really proud to be a part of your life and to be able to have seen you grow into this beautiful person you’ve become.” I looked at him speechless for a moment. Shocked.
“I don’t know what to say… These things have been unspoken for years. And now you say this to me when I’m finally happy? I’m flattered, and you know that I’ll always have a spot in my heart for you, but I don’t really know how to respond. Haha..” It was a happy speechless though, at the time I would have liked to believe it was true, but I kept my response ambiguous enough so he could be satisfied but contained to the extent that I knew I couldn’t marry someone lacking the persistency that I needed. Marriage was far fetched, and to be honest I was perfectly content and happy with whom I was with. I had the most incredible girlfriend at the time, she proved to me through her actions and reaction alone that it is possible for a human to perfectly imperfect, and to be able love unconditionally. It was effortless being with her, so I was careful with my words, but at the same time I agreed with him. It was an incredible feeling seeing someone progress so much over the years, going from a boy to a man. I was proud as well; he was handsome, compassionate, talented, and a joy to be around, he had a wonderful mind that kept me on my toes and always listening.
Months had passed, and I watched as his bright eyes became glossed with the overwhelming confrontation of reality.
“So… what’s going on?”
“Nothings wrong, music is going good, moving out to Berkeley next month, recording soon, things are alright.” My eyes skimmed the room and I couldn’t help but notice the books he wasted his time with; all focused on the corruption of the world and counterculture activism, and underground punk music, etc.. etc.. I missed my friend, whose tender heart radiated through is eager mind.
He lit another cigarette, “ I guess nothings right either… I dunno. It whatever. I just need some weed and I’m sure I’ll be more happy.” He chuckled to himself, revealing a stunning white smile.
My heart broke for the last time. “Trevor, you take care of yourself okay?”
“What do you mean? I am..”
“I mean, take it easy.. okay? I care about you, and I just think you owe it to your body to take-it-easy. Your burning yourself out. You’re gone. I can’t even look at you.”
“I’m just gonna smoke a bowl.” Responding to my reaction with more sympathy, “I’ll smoke it in here, don’t worry.”
“No,” I put on my coat, and gathered my things. “I’m going to head out.”
He looked up and we stared at each other for a long period of time, his face hindering misunderstanding behind his mask, and mine fluttered with emotion and pity.
“We’ll come here then.” He opened his arms on his bed for a hug, and I caved. This is the last time, I’m too late, he’s gone… I thought to myself and I walked out of the house unnoticed by some other friends. I stepped out of the house, examined the packed boxes and stacked chairs around the porch and composed myself.
I said the last goodbye to my huckleberry friend, and waved goodbye to the past as I rode away on my bike in state of absolute mourning. No person should lose their soul to their art, or to their mind, or to anything for that matter.
I wept through the park on my way home and began writing down the experience that just happened to me, but it was too much to scribble down, so I simply wrote,
“When the grim of innocence comes and steals the people you love, you cant help but stare…. with the same sunken expression they’ve brought upon themselves...”
It's hard to tell these days, what love is. So easily could I rent a pair of fine spectacles labeled "love" and watch in awe at whoever stood before me. I would reach to touch them, leap to get a grip, and they would step aside, and I would love it because it meant I didn't have to sit anymore, I could move, I could follow, I could run, I could chase, and blind fold my eyes from seeing the parts of the world I didn't want to exist... and when we kissed I would close my eyes, I would turn my back, I would become my tongue and dance with them through my soul, and laugh when the tangibility hit me like a strong wind that blows my worries of yesterday, or tomorrow away because RIGHT. NOW. I. AM. IN. LOVE.
