Tonight I met my memory of my best friend as a child. He
called himself “Peter,” but he had the same intelligence in his eyes and I knew
it was him. We talked about dreams and travelling and things insomniacs see out
of the corners of their eyes (but don’t talk about except to other insomniacs),
and he waited for me while I peed on the beach. I almost thought he’d
disappeared back into the shadows, and I had a flicker of acceptance for
something I hadn’t put words to yet. Something personal and deeply calming. But
then he was there, and we walked back to my car while I waited for the hangover
to pass. We almost robbed a bank- he picked it out like he was casing a job.
-
and I remembered-
In eighth grade, me and my friends camped out for opening
night at the Royal Theatre. We wore our Harry Potter scarves, and ordered pizza
to the sidewalk, and across the street, a drunk person tried to break into the
BMO in broad daylight. At least 3 police cars pulled up, and it was the only
time I’d ever seen guns being held up, like proper guns. No one got shot- the
drunk tried to hide under a truck outside the bank, and everything was taken
care of before anyone knew anything had happened. But I remember, when everyone
moved away and tried to duck behind doorways and behind vehicles (so they could
watch without been seen to have watched) I ran up to the corner, and stood
behind a tree in case any stray bullets came my way. My mom yelled at me, I
think, but I don’t remember why she would have been there, so I might have
imagined her.
“-Hold my hand!” I said hurriedly, and we walked past,
politely trying to stay out of their way. He had his hand stuck in his pocket
and I’m sure the bank officers saw through it. Peter laughed like it was the
funniest thing in the world, and I found myself hoping we never ended up
somewhere where he had to keep a straight face, or have a pretense of any sort.
I worried about Jessica when we got to my car. What if she’d
walked into something awful after I saw her turn that last corner? But then I
found something else to say, something bitchy and snarky, and I forgot I used
to be the kind of person who would’ve walked her home even if I hated her,
which I still don’t.
I drove Christopher Rabbit home, and I made him show me
where he *really* lived. He was quiet for a second, and then he said he felt
guilty for having 3 vehicles in the driveway while kids were starving in
Ethiopia. It didn’t sound cheesy or stupid, though. He just said it. It was
just something you might say if you were drunk and confused and yet certain of
your own shit being total shit at 4:30 AM and therefore important.
We hugged, and he kissed my neck. It was sort of a peck-
he’d told me he sees demons, and I asked him what they looked like, so we were
sort of friends now, anyway- and less intimate than a proper kiss. He might’ve
been leaning in for a proper kiss, but I’m good at awkward moments. He’d also
told me he was gay, or at least on the spectrum of- like that really means
anything. But he’d said it, and I was holding him to it.
I have the name he called himself and a pre-approved friend
request on Facebook. I have a dead phone, and the hope that I’m a better person
than Julie was. I also have a boyfriend, who’ll wonder what sorts of things
I’ve been up to when I tell him he wouldn’t believe the night I’ve had, and
who’ll fear the worst no matter how honest I am. Besides, he knows me a little,
so he’ll probably believe me. I wish things like that happened when he was
around. He always thinks I’m exaggerating when I tell him where I was.
