didn’t know if a doctor would need it or not, to examine the contents. If not, I was going to shove it up John’s ass.
I rooted around in his pockets for vials or pipes or anything else that would indicate what he had in his system. All I found was an empty pack of Chesterfields and a wadded-up FedEx receipt for something he sent to a Nevada address.
I stopped myself before I drifted into the area of what could be called “snooping” and locked up the apartment behind me. I went down and found John pacing back and forth in the parking lot, rain pelting him, fists clenched, ready for the dark god Cthulhu himself to come flopping out of the first-level doors. I tossed him his jacket, told him to get in my car. He opened the door, and froze in fear.
“What?” I barked. “What is it now?”
John was staring at Molly like she was the fluffy devil incarnate.
“John?”
“Uh . . . nothing. When did the dog find you?”
“You know this dog? It’s been following me around like a lost, uh, dog.”
“I dunno. It doesn’t matter. Let’s go, before . . . something else follows us.” He glanced up at the apartment building.
I ducked into the car but didn’t start it.
John glanced up at the building once more, said, “Just tell me you could see it. At least that.”
“I didn’t see it. Tell me what this is.”
I held up the syringe. John rubbed his eyes, a man exhausted.
“You don’t wanna touch that. What time is it?”
“Just past five in the morning.”
“What day?”
“Friday night. I mean, Saturday morning. It feels like Friday night because I’ve barely slept yet. And we got work today, remember?”
“You shouldn’t have come here.”
“You called me. You begged me.”
John leaned back, closed his eyes. For a second I thought he had dozed off. Finally, he mumbled: “I did? When?”
“Tell me what this stuff is, John. They’re gonna ask me, first thing. Tell me before you fall asleep.”
“I remember now. Calling you. It’s hard, everything’s running together. I called and called and called. Like a shotgun, firing in every direction hoping to hit somethin’. I bet I called you twenty times.”
“Twice. You called me twice. John, answer my question.”
“Really? You kept getting weird on me. You know what I think? I think you’ll be getting calls from me for the next eight or nine years. All from tonight. I couldn’t help it, couldn’t get oriented. Kept slipping out of the time . . . you’ve got a voice mail message three years from now that’s freaking hilarious.”
I jammed the syringe back into my pocket and started the car. John reached over, grabbed my wrist. His eyes were open and alarmed.
“Wait. Where are we gonna go? Where are we gonna be safe from this thing?”
“Emergency room, John. I’m not playing this game with you. I don’t know what else to do and I don’t know how we’re gonna pay for it. You’re on a bad trip, or whatever they call it. Maybe it’s a big deal, maybe it’s not. Maybe you can just sleep shit like this off. I don’t know because I’m not a junkie and I’m not a doctor.”
“No. The hospital’s no good. We’ll go to your place, or somewhere. Anywhere but here.”
I can’t make myself recount the rest of this conversation. I’m too ashamed of it. The long and the short of it is that I let John talk me out of taking him to get treatment, that I worried more about him liking me than about whether he lived or died, that on that night, at that moment, I was the lowest, most selfish, worthless coward who ever lived.
So where was there to go? We were both scared for different reasons. He needed safety and I needed some kind of familiar comfort.
I’m not sure how we decided on Denny’s but that’s where we wound up. Well-lit, familiar, full of people. We sat in a booth and downed cup after cup of coffee in silence, John smoking his cigarettes and sneaking furtive glances out the window, me counting the seconds that
I rooted around in his pockets for vials or pipes or anything else that would indicate what he had in his system. All I found was an empty pack of Chesterfields and a wadded-up FedEx receipt for something he sent to a Nevada address.
I stopped myself before I drifted into the area of what could be called “snooping” and locked up the apartment behind me. I went down and found John pacing back and forth in the parking lot, rain pelting him, fists clenched, ready for the dark god Cthulhu himself to come flopping out of the first-level doors. I tossed him his jacket, told him to get in my car. He opened the door, and froze in fear.
“What?” I barked. “What is it now?”
John was staring at Molly like she was the fluffy devil incarnate.
“John?”
“Uh . . . nothing. When did the dog find you?”
“You know this dog? It’s been following me around like a lost, uh, dog.”
“I dunno. It doesn’t matter. Let’s go, before . . . something else follows us.” He glanced up at the apartment building.
I ducked into the car but didn’t start it.
John glanced up at the building once more, said, “Just tell me you could see it. At least that.”
“I didn’t see it. Tell me what this is.”
I held up the syringe. John rubbed his eyes, a man exhausted.
“You don’t wanna touch that. What time is it?”
“Just past five in the morning.”
“What day?”
“Friday night. I mean, Saturday morning. It feels like Friday night because I’ve barely slept yet. And we got work today, remember?”
“You shouldn’t have come here.”
“You called me. You begged me.”
John leaned back, closed his eyes. For a second I thought he had dozed off. Finally, he mumbled: “I did? When?”
“Tell me what this stuff is, John. They’re gonna ask me, first thing. Tell me before you fall asleep.”
“I remember now. Calling you. It’s hard, everything’s running together. I called and called and called. Like a shotgun, firing in every direction hoping to hit somethin’. I bet I called you twenty times.”
“Twice. You called me twice. John, answer my question.”
“Really? You kept getting weird on me. You know what I think? I think you’ll be getting calls from me for the next eight or nine years. All from tonight. I couldn’t help it, couldn’t get oriented. Kept slipping out of the time . . . you’ve got a voice mail message three years from now that’s freaking hilarious.”
I jammed the syringe back into my pocket and started the car. John reached over, grabbed my wrist. His eyes were open and alarmed.
“Wait. Where are we gonna go? Where are we gonna be safe from this thing?”
“Emergency room, John. I’m not playing this game with you. I don’t know what else to do and I don’t know how we’re gonna pay for it. You’re on a bad trip, or whatever they call it. Maybe it’s a big deal, maybe it’s not. Maybe you can just sleep shit like this off. I don’t know because I’m not a junkie and I’m not a doctor.”
“No. The hospital’s no good. We’ll go to your place, or somewhere. Anywhere but here.”
I can’t make myself recount the rest of this conversation. I’m too ashamed of it. The long and the short of it is that I let John talk me out of taking him to get treatment, that I worried more about him liking me than about whether he lived or died, that on that night, at that moment, I was the lowest, most selfish, worthless coward who ever lived.
So where was there to go? We were both scared for different reasons. He needed safety and I needed some kind of familiar comfort.
I’m not sure how we decided on Denny’s but that’s where we wound up. Well-lit, familiar, full of people. We sat in a booth and downed cup after cup of coffee in silence, John smoking his cigarettes and sneaking furtive glances out the window, me counting the seconds that
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