French fries.
“He’s cool,” she said.
“What’s his name?”
“Jared.”
“Oh.”
“He never tries anything with me.”
“Oh. I guess that’s good.”
“Yeah. It’s really good. Because who knows what I would do, I might just do it with him.”
“Really?”
“Sure.”
“What would you get out of it?”
She shrugs her shoulders. “Coke.”
“Why do you keep this stuff secret from me?”
“I’m telling you right now.”
“Yeah, but you’ve been doing it for months.”
“So?”
“How come you never invite me?” I asked this even though I’m so glad I’ve never been part of these nights.
“Really? Why don’t I bring you on my gross drug adventures? God, how horrifying. I never want you to see me that way. I’m an ugly person at four in the morning when there’s not enough cocaine to go around. God. I will never bring you with me.”
I felt satisfied with her explanation, and then kinda lonely. How stupid. How can I feel left out of something I don’t want to be part of?
Peter orders us drinks and pays for them. This seems wildly generous. We walk down to the end of the bar, sliding past people in the narrow space between the barstools and the wall. Irma and Peter hug. Irma is kind of a sister to Pete too. She’s been coming to our family functions and hanging out with Pete the whole time we’ve known each other.
“What up,” I hear behind me, and turn to see Oliver clapping hands with Peter. He turns to me and smiles. “Paloma, what up girl, it’s been a minute.” His eyes are pinpoints in toilet water. High as hell. I wonder if he’s going full speed on dope since he knows he has to quit soon. My uncle used to be like this.
Smooth Nites is about to start, so we stand at the back of the small crowd. Bob and Donna launch into “Always,” that old duet by Atlantic Starr, which I love. I sing with them at the top of my lungs. I’m not the best singer in the world, kind of perpetually flat, but you have to admit that anyone who loves to sing makes up for lack of skill with enthusiasm. It’s the whole principle behind karaoke. I look over at Pete and he has a small smile on his lips, and his arm around Irma. He looks happy. That makes me happy. Something inside me relaxes.
Next they sing the theme song from the movie The Never-Ending Story. Now people all over the room are singing as loud as possible and I run to the front of the stage, popping veins in my face from singing so hard (just saying that for drama, no veins actually burst). After a few exhilarating minutes I walk back to Irma and Peter. Oliver is missing. My tiny bladder kicks in and I head for the bathroom, which miraculously has no line, probably because the band is playing. Just as I’m pushing the door open I notice Oliver in the corner, leaning against the wall and nodding out. I walk over and touch his arm.
“Oliver.” No answer. I shake him lightly. “Ollie, you should probably go home.” His eyes open the smallest bit. He shifts his weight.
“I don’t really have a place right now,” he says.
“Where’ve you been staying?”
“Got kicked out.”
Through a heavy panel of dread I say, “Do you want to stay at my house? You can take my keys and we’ll meet you back there later.” I feel intense panic, but swallow it, and hand him my keys. It would be wrong not to help someone without a place to stay. Especially a sad idiot like this. He pats my shoulder in a totally stupid way, and leaves.
I walk back out onto the floor where they’re playing “Hard Habit to Break” by Chicago. Everyone is singing along loudly and swaying together. After the song ends, Irma and I get more drinks. We end up closing the bar. I dance so hard I think I break my little toe from ramming into some guy.
We tumble outside and hang around talking and smoking until Peter wants to go. I can’t believe he’s put up with all the drinking and idiocy while sober. It has to be powerfully annoying. We say goodnight to Irma and walk down the street to my car. I puff on a wet-dirty-sweat-sock-tasting cigarette.
“Can you drive us?” Peter asks, then gets a mischievous smile. “Just kidding, ya drunkard!”
“Will you stay over again? Oliver is there and I’m a little freaked out by that.”
“What do you mean, he’s there?”
“He didn’t have a place to stay so I said he could go hang out. He was nodding out at the bar.”
“He’s been at the Eula, why didn’t he just go there?” The Eula is a residential hotel on 16th Street.
“He told me he was kicked out of wherever he was.”
“Really? Okay.”
A few minutes later we walk up to my front door and knock. No answer. Peter doesn’t have a key to my place and Oliver has mine so we’re locked out. I hit the doorbell several times, no answer. Peter calls Oliver’s Tracfone, or whatever those phones are called that you pay as you go. No answer. My landlord lives upstairs, and I would rather not bug him at two in the morning, so Peter and I go to his place and crash.
I wake up on Peter’s old olive green couch at five in the morning, booze sweaty and disgusting, my clothes from the night before twisted around my body. I’m obscenely dehydrated. I get a glass of water and stare at the filthy sink full of dishes. Half an hour later my brother wakes up.
“What the hell are you doing up?”
“Can’t sleep lately. Anxiety.”
“Probably the whole being sober thing, right?”
“Guess so.”
“I hope Oliver is okay.”
“Want to go over? Is your landlord up?”
“I’ll text him. I tried Oliver but no answer.”
We meet my landlord at my house and he lets us in. I check my bedroom and no Oliver. We get to the living room and there he is, on the couch. His face is a greyish-blue, and his rig lies next to him on top of his backpack.
“Fuck, call 911!” I holler at my brother, who is right next to me.
“Calm down, I’m on it.”
“I’m not going to fucking calm down! This isn’t a time for calm! Don’t tell me to see a dead person and mellow out!” I start yelling and Peter walks out of the room, giving an address to the operator. I try to find a pulse in Oliver’s neck, even though I think he’s gone. We wait. I feel like throwing up. I go into the bathroom and sit on
