“Lunch is on me. I gotta go.” Before either of us can voice the thousands of questions, Jesse’s out the door.
“What the fuck?” I ask, and pull the money over. “Think he’s dealin?”
“Dunno, maybe. Maybe it’s time I got dad involved? I think we have to quit covering for him.” Dave scratches his head and pushes his plate away.
*
—Come over. Now—
I read the text from Dave and dart a glance at my father across the dinner table. He’s looking over some stock portfolio or case file or anything except talking to me. Shocker.
—Can’t. Dinner—
—Now! Important. Now! 911—
It’s got to be about Jesse. It’s always 911 about Jesse. I sigh and type back.
—Will try—
Scooting my chair out, I attempt to make as little noise as possible. No one lifts their head. And by no one, I mean my father. My mother hasn’t
returned from her European vacation. Not for two years. My clean getaway to the garage isn’t so surprising.
My father bought me the BMW for my sixteenth birthday. He wasn’t around when I got the keys, just left them by the door with a note that read ‘drive safely’. Not even a happy birthday. The asshole. Every time I use it to visit Jesse and Dave I get an extra thrill. It’s because of this car that I can so easily defy both him and my grandfather.
—On my way— I type gleefully, expecting to have an adventurous night of Search For Jesse.
*
The only emergency is Dave. When I get to his house, I have to let myself in. It isn’t hard to find him, I just follow the rage. He is seething unintelligible words, skin so red he appears sunburned. He has transformed Jesse’s side of the room into a disaster of epic proportions. The drawers are pulled out of the dresser, clothes strewn, feathers still drifting down from ravaged pillows. Even the mattresses are pulled off the twin bed.
“He’s dead,” Dave screams, “Fucker. Asshole. Hung himself on the tree in his father’s front yard.” “What?” Where Dave is rage, I am devastation. I slide down the wall and grip both sides of my head.~*~
After the funeral, Dave never talked about Jesse again. For six months after Jesse’s death, Dave didn’t talk to me at all. By that time I had become the model heterosexual and was well on my way to becoming the model son, too. In large part due to meeting Angelica.
My friendship with Dave tentatively picked up when I tried
out and made the baseball team. When it was clear neither of us were going to bring up our dead friend, the mood shifted and we became more comfortable. There were always pieces missing, though. A movie we’d watch in which one of us would pause, expecting Jesse to mutter about dubbing. The odd refusal to go to the homecoming dance, where Jesse had been crowned in previous years. We skipped football games and pep rallies. Once Dave dropped a cd down the side of my car seat and pulled up a sketching pencil that Jesse had left there. Before Dave could throw it out the window, I grabbed it and stuck it in the console.
We didn’t talk about that either.
My grandfather died in my senior year. Dave was already on the police force by then. He was waiting outside the house while we held the open casket wake. I relished grandfather’s death-hardened countenance, forever grim and cold. “I’m going to be a cop,” I had said. “Fuck you and fuck Princeton. Fuck being a lawyer. Fuck your edicts about my friends. And most of all, fuck your son and his frigid wife. I’ll be there for kids like me.” For kids like Jesse.
It was easy to be brave when no one but the dead could hear.
How To Lock Yourself in A Closet without Realizing It So there it was, everything I had avoided thinking about for the past thirteen years. First the feelings stirred by Jesse, then his seemingly instant descent into drugs and alcohol until his final ‘fuck you’ death. I started repressing my feelings way back then because of our friendship, then continued doing so
“What the fuck?” I ask, and pull the money over. “Think he’s dealin?”
“Dunno, maybe. Maybe it’s time I got dad involved? I think we have to quit covering for him.” Dave scratches his head and pushes his plate away.
*
—Come over. Now—
I read the text from Dave and dart a glance at my father across the dinner table. He’s looking over some stock portfolio or case file or anything except talking to me. Shocker.
—Can’t. Dinner—
—Now! Important. Now! 911—
It’s got to be about Jesse. It’s always 911 about Jesse. I sigh and type back.
—Will try—
Scooting my chair out, I attempt to make as little noise as possible. No one lifts their head. And by no one, I mean my father. My mother hasn’t
returned from her European vacation. Not for two years. My clean getaway to the garage isn’t so surprising.
My father bought me the BMW for my sixteenth birthday. He wasn’t around when I got the keys, just left them by the door with a note that read ‘drive safely’. Not even a happy birthday. The asshole. Every time I use it to visit Jesse and Dave I get an extra thrill. It’s because of this car that I can so easily defy both him and my grandfather.
—On my way— I type gleefully, expecting to have an adventurous night of Search For Jesse.
*
The only emergency is Dave. When I get to his house, I have to let myself in. It isn’t hard to find him, I just follow the rage. He is seething unintelligible words, skin so red he appears sunburned. He has transformed Jesse’s side of the room into a disaster of epic proportions. The drawers are pulled out of the dresser, clothes strewn, feathers still drifting down from ravaged pillows. Even the mattresses are pulled off the twin bed.
“He’s dead,” Dave screams, “Fucker. Asshole. Hung himself on the tree in his father’s front yard.” “What?” Where Dave is rage, I am devastation. I slide down the wall and grip both sides of my head.~*~
After the funeral, Dave never talked about Jesse again. For six months after Jesse’s death, Dave didn’t talk to me at all. By that time I had become the model heterosexual and was well on my way to becoming the model son, too. In large part due to meeting Angelica.
My friendship with Dave tentatively picked up when I tried
out and made the baseball team. When it was clear neither of us were going to bring up our dead friend, the mood shifted and we became more comfortable. There were always pieces missing, though. A movie we’d watch in which one of us would pause, expecting Jesse to mutter about dubbing. The odd refusal to go to the homecoming dance, where Jesse had been crowned in previous years. We skipped football games and pep rallies. Once Dave dropped a cd down the side of my car seat and pulled up a sketching pencil that Jesse had left there. Before Dave could throw it out the window, I grabbed it and stuck it in the console.
We didn’t talk about that either.
My grandfather died in my senior year. Dave was already on the police force by then. He was waiting outside the house while we held the open casket wake. I relished grandfather’s death-hardened countenance, forever grim and cold. “I’m going to be a cop,” I had said. “Fuck you and fuck Princeton. Fuck being a lawyer. Fuck your edicts about my friends. And most of all, fuck your son and his frigid wife. I’ll be there for kids like me.” For kids like Jesse.
It was easy to be brave when no one but the dead could hear.
How To Lock Yourself in A Closet without Realizing It So there it was, everything I had avoided thinking about for the past thirteen years. First the feelings stirred by Jesse, then his seemingly instant descent into drugs and alcohol until his final ‘fuck you’ death. I started repressing my feelings way back then because of our friendship, then continued doing so
Similar Books
