Inexcusable by Chris Lynch Page A

low and address the tray.
    He picked up the short green plastic straw and inhaled a straight white stripe.
    When he stood back up again and tried a smile on me, the live half of his face had sunk to meet the floppy half.
    â€œBut that doesn’t tell me what it is,” I said.
    â€œIt’s whatever you want,” he said, pointing like a general over a battlefield map. “You want to go up, you stick to this area over here. You want to go down, then these here are what you’re looking for. Then, of course, we have whatever combination of the two you might be interested in.”
    I took a half step back. “Are you pulling my leg?”
    â€œIf that’s what you want,” he said, reaching down toward my leg. My kicking leg.
    I grabbed him by the shoulders and brought him back up. “Really, Ken,” I said. “All this stuff . . . serious stuff?”
    â€œSerious as it gets,” he said proudly.
    I shook my head. “That’s, um, that’s beyond me, I think, Ken. That’s . . . you have to be, like, a freak to be doing that stuff.”
    â€œNah, nah, nah, nah,” he said. “You’re talking about injecting. This isn’t like that. This is just for laughs. Strictly recreational . . . although seriously recreational.”
    As if we had settled something there, he nodded at me, patted my cheek a couple of times, then went at the silver tray again, this time taking one from column A, one from B. The Swedish farmers, cashing in, I supposed, on years of faithful service protecting the quarterback’s body, were now edging up to collect on the debt.
    Ken stepped aside to let them in.
    â€œYour choice,” he said, glassy-eyed, his speech slowing as he tried to blink away the wet eyes and twitchy nose.
    It might be understating things to say that I was no choirboy. Truth is, I had no aversion to the occasional stimulant. Probably that was the issue, that maybe I’d have been better off with some kind of aversion. Not that I was inclined to go mental on cocaine or whatever. Just that . . . it tended to keep me going, beyond the point when I should have been finished. It was like being kept in the game long after you should be taken out and so you spoil it for everyone.
    I thought about mistakes I had made in the past. I thought about when things went wrong. And I realized it was never an issue of intent, but of intensity. I was a goodguy, recall. I could do things and be okay. I could join in and have fun and not cause problems. I didn’t have to be afraid of any of this stuff. I didn’t have to lock myself away from the action, as long as the action didn’t get too hot.
    â€œRight, just a line, then,” I said, stepping up. “But mix it, one from column A and one from column B together. To balance me out.”
    â€œAh, a very sensible guy,” Ken said, and right away did the required scooping and mixing.
    Without fuss I bent into it, and it bent into me. I straightened up, shook my head like a horse. My head filled and sped up. Eyes went wide, all went bright. My heart raced and mellowed parallel, like I had two partner hearts working together, and only just now they were broken open and shown to me.
    I had two whole hearts. How could I have missed that? Lucky me.
    I saw my reflection in the mirror, overexcited and overcharged, and I backed away.
    â€œNow you’ll have another,” Ken said with a big grin.
    â€œNow I won’t,” I said, hands out in front of me. “I think . . . maybe I’ll just go and find a drink. If that’s okay. You know, I wasn’t really planning on staying, so I’m sorry I didn’t bring anything . . .”
    â€œHey, shut up,” he snapped, as if the strain of keeping his eyes clear was infuriating him and I was somehow responsible for it.
    I was about to apologize again, when I realized I had it