After that I went to my grandparents for the weekend.
Now it’s Monday and I haven’t spoken to Vickie since Friday night, and she owes me $30. I hope to talk to her today. I have off today (and tomorrow). I was hoping she’d have off this afternoon too, but she’s working till around four. I’ll call her then to get my money and see if she wants to do anything.
Dear Nobody,
Mom said Traci called me when I was in rehab. I haven’t talked to her for a while. I should call her. Since getting back, I’ve been wanting to hang out with her again—even though there has been some drama—we are still pretty good friends. No matter what rumors are going around, I will always love her, because Traci knows all the worst shit about me, and she doesn’t care.
Should I ask her what REALLY happened? Get HER side of the story?
It’s probably just a rumor; but here’s what I heard happened. I heard that while I was in rehab, Traci got drunk with Geoff—and she kissed him. I talked to Geoff about it, and he said he didn’t do anything. He said he just ignored her. I don’t really think he would have kissed her—she’s the one who kissed him first. I just wonder if he kissed back or not? He says he didn’t.
I’m not going to stop hanging out with Traci because of a stupid rumor, but maybe I should trust her as far as I could spit on her.
Oh, well.
This friend of mine, Pete, called Traci a Mary-Rose-Wannabe. Pete’s really cool. We get along okay except his mom hates me—almost everyone’s parents do. He’s the sweetest guy that I know right now. Maybe if Geoff and I break up again, I’ll ask Pete to the movies.
Geoff told me he was sick of us always arguing when we are together. I’ve punched him in the face during some arguments—but only when I’m drunk. It really hurts his feelings. Thankfully he’s never hit me back, and never would. Since getting back together, I’ve stopped getting drunk enough to punch him, but we still argue a lot.
He can be really thoughtless.
Last night on the phone, he told me he wanted me to leave him alone and forget about him. He said that he didn’t care either way if he ever saw or talked to me again. And that really, really hurt.
I wonder how he’d feel if I died tonight? Or tomorrow?
Dear Nobody,
Man, I bet I know why Geoff acted so extra-mean the last time I talked to him. And I have a feeling that Vickie may have played a big part in it, too. See I talked shit about Geoff to Vickie, and Vickie must have told Sam, and Sam must have told Geoff. I know Vickie can’t stand me. She’s really only nice to me when she needs money. She’s a real miserable bitch when she doesn’t need anything. It’s just that I don’t have anyone else to hang out with, except for maybe a few other girls that I could start to chill with (they don’t just USE me, or treat me like SHIT).
Well, I’ll have to get my money back before I ask Vickie if she told Sam to tell Geoff everything I said.
FUCK THEM!
I don’t even really care all that much anymore. If they want to be my real friends, they’ll prove themselves, as I’ve tried to for them. Loyalty is all I really want. Those kids aren’t even much fun (but we all need someone to pal around with). I hate that fact.
Well, I only worked one day this week. I caught some sort of stomach virus and have been puking my ass out for the past two days. I feel better, but not completely. I’m supposed to go to some party tonight. Ha—a drinking party—my stomach will LOVE that. Anyway, tomorrow is Halloween, so after I go to this party tonight with this one girl, I’ll probably do something tomorrow night with another girl, and maybe the girl from tonight.
Well, I smell and look like shit, so I have to go take a shower and all that shit. Tomorrow I have to get some of my shit back from this one girl, pick up my paycheck, and then I have to get my thirty bucks back from Vickie.
Dammit, man.
I’ve got so much shit to do, but I’m so fucking bored.
Dear Nobody,
Geoff won’t talk to me.
I hate that time during fights between “friends” when nothing has been resolved yet, and it’s too soon to find out if anything can be reconciled. Especially when it’s one of those fights that could mean “The End.” You see, I’ve noticed that my different friends get into fights for different reasons. That’s why we’ve all (most of us) got back-up friends—to keep us occupied during the intervals between the spats with our “real” friends.
Even so, the time between is SO BORING. Maybe that’s even the reason why WE DO reconcile—the feeling of knowing that right now we could be out, doing something worthwhile, something we’d like to do—but instead are driven out of desperation to spend time with these alternative people. This desperation is what drives us back to our old “friends”—clad with apologies and nervous smiles—no one wanting to come across as being grandiose, yet no one even conceiving the idea of being too humble. That is a far worse travesty than losing the friend (which is why it all started in the first place).
And different friends have different battles, and different “calming periods” that come after these battles. For example, alcoholic “friends” usually stop talking for a day or two, to weeks, sometimes because of things said or done while sloppy drunk. Sometimes over fist fights. Usually these differences are made up by the next time a person wants to get drunk, and has no drinking partner.
Then of course there’s always getting extremely drunk and calling from a payphone covered with the stench of liquor and vomit on our shoes, pouring our heart (and apologies) out.
Potheads just forget these altercations. Which is ironic because usually they can go the longest without talking to who they used to, simply because potheads will smoke a joint with just about anybody, anywhere.
Coke-heads are always fighting, or arguing, yet move in and out of conversations so quickly that it’s almost barely noticeable. They do have their problems too, but usually money is at the root of it.
Heroin is a weird one. It means so many different things to different people. The people that use it usually not only need it, but also need some of the people that come along with it. It’s not really something you can do continuously all by yourself. You almost always need other people to keep it going.
Either way, whatever group, drug, fight, or grudge, I hate the waiting in between. It SUCKS!
Dear Nobody,
I haven’t talked to Geoff, my stupid ex-boyfriend, in like two weeks and I’m glad. I’m much better off without him. But right now I’ve got a hickey on my neck—and I’m not sure who it’s from—and I don’t care, either! I did 69 with Sam, who I really like, but he’s not my boyfriend—we really only talk when we’re drunk. His friend Pete and I make out, too. I really like Sam, but I’m loud and obnoxious when I’m drunk and he’s very withdrawn—kinda quiet. Sometimes his responses to what I say feel fake, or like, heartless and thoughtless; I dunno, maybe he just doesn’t know what to say. He’s social, but has anti-social habits. I heard him say he doesn’t care about anyone but himself.
FUCK THAT—I want to change that so bad!
I really like him—but there’s no way I’m going out with him and then have him hating and lying about me like everyone else. He’s too special.
Dear Nobody,
Hooray! Hooray! I got Geoff to forgive me! He called, and we talked a while—him being solemn, and I being the one doing most of the talking. I had no idea that our argument had hurt him THAT much—it was almost touching. Then he said shit, like, how he could never forgive me for what I had said, that it was completely over for us two forever. He said he’d never been so angry in his life—and it kind of made me glad (in a sick kind of way)—that I’d meant enough to him to hurt him so badly. But then when he started saying all that “It’s-definitely-over-bullshit” I began to panic. I apologized. I expressed my shame and humility and owned-up to the destruction of our relationship.
He wa
s a tough cookie about it, but I broke out with some of my best shit, although I was feeling a shade Pinocchio. I’m glad it was over the phone, because I had a big smile on my face for some of it. I’m not sure why; maybe because it struck me odd to hear myself saying these things—almost begging his forgiveness.
After maybe an hour of such shit, he said he had to go.
I said for him to at least think over what I had said, that I really did not mean any of the horrible things I had said before, and that he had absolutely every right to be very mad at me—but, “PLEASE, PLEASE DON’T LET IT RUIN WHAT WE HAVE! DON’T LET IT RUIN US!”
Well, after feeling like a criminal, or a liar on a witch trial, he said he’d call me back a little later. And he did—to see if I wanted to go out.
Hmm—never forgive to forgiven in fifty-five minutes flat. Shall I be an actress or a lawyer?
I was ecstatic at his change of “heart.” Thrilled. He picked me up an hour afterward. The night started tense, but by the end—we were gazing at each other with more romance and tenderness than Romeo & Juliet.
Yep, I worked a little bit of my magic, hee, hee, hee!
I’m just irresistible.
Dear Nobody,
When Geoff forgave me, instead of deeming him as a sucker, instead of losing all respect for him and denouncing him as a weak excuse of a man—quite the opposite happened. I was genuinely touched by his forgiveness of me. It made me feel more human in some way—more special; and not in an obligated, indispensable way, but in an emotionally gratifying way.
I’m so glad to be back in my baby’s arms. Yep, maybe I could love this one—he makes me feel so special—and he has restored my faith in the awesome power of forgiveness. It’s just such a beautiful concept; and now Geoff’s beginning to seem more beautiful, more real, and all the more wonderful to me.
I could maybe love him. I am almost there. I also know he has to care for me a great deal. I said such terrible things to him and he granted me forgiveness—after only a little anger and a little hurt was expressed—it should have been in exchange for much more anger and hurt, yet he spared me that unpleasantness. What a man. Then after all of that, there he was, welcoming me back with open arms. It felt so good.
I’ll remember this the next time somebody really needs my forgiveness.
Dear Nobody,
So, me, Geoff, Sam and Sam’s twelve year-old brother, Fred, went to the cemetery to get fucked-up. We each had two forty-ounce bottles of Crazy Horse Malt Liquor. We all just sat in a circle under the full moon on the soft grass—seeing who could get their first forty down the fastest. I remember the forty-ounce being extra fizzy that night, probably because of the cold. Sam finished his beer first—as usual. Even though Geoff is older than all of us—as well as the biggest—he threw-up first (mostly fizz). Fred ended up puking right afterwards, but he finished second, which was my usual place. Then I finished. Needless to say, with 80 ounces of malt liquor pumping through my hundred and six pound body, I was pretty drunk—and loving it.
We were all getting dizzy and Sam wandered over to a tall tree and started to piss. Geoff got up to talk to him—and started spinning in circles while describing, to no one in particular, how dizzy he was. Fred just sat on a tombstone grinning at Geoff. Then they got up and walked over to the tree. I tried to get up, but I toppled over—which was fine by me because I got to lie on my back and look at the sky. Even though the trees were shading the cemetery it was extremely clear that night. The stars were almost unnoticeable compared to the bright, shining moon. It almost didn’t look real. I wondered if I was the only person in the world looking up at the beautiful sky that night. I glanced over at the three drunken clowns I was with, and wished that I was somewhere else.
Sam and I were probably the most intoxicated (as usual). He came over to get me up, and by then I had started a conversation with the vomit lying beside me. I apologized to the vomit for cutting our conversation short, before stumbling along after Sam. Geoff and Fred were ahead of us. Soon we established a new residence near the cemetery exit. We sat and talked for a while—happy with our new location—until we saw two police cars parked at the cemetery exit. Four policemen aimed their flashlights in our direction and started to walk toward us.
Geoff and Fred jumped up and ran back into the cemetery. Sam probably could have escaped too, but looked after me instead. He tried carrying me—but we both just spilled-over after the first two steps. Sam ran and hid from view behind the gate. He motioned with his arms for me to follow him. Intoxicated me thought if I ran fast enough—between the two cop cars—that they’d never see me. I immediately took off running but didn’t happen to notice the step I had just skipped. I flew to the ground—landing between the two cars.
The cops didn’t notice me until I hissed at Sam asking for his location. The two cops walked around the car and I heard Sam’s voice telling me to run. I got up and immediately fell. I got up again—and started running as fast as I could. Just when I thought I was going to make it—one of the cops came up from behind me and shoved me onto the ground with both of his hands.
Next thing I knew I was on the ground licking gravel off of my lips. A flashlight shone directly into my eyes—not only was I dumbfounded—but blinded. I let out a guttural wail as I felt the cop’s knee further compressing my back, as he put handcuffs on me. The cuffs were so tight they pinched the flesh on my wrists. The officer got one more good weight shift on my ribcage before his codependent came and they pulled me off the ground by my hair.
They were asking me questions just as fast as I was blocking them out. They pushed me in back of the cop car and I hit my head—hard—on the door frame. I flinched, after trying to use my elbows to stabilize myself, and realized that my elbows had been turned into puddles of pus and blood—and that the palms of my hands were raw and filled with bits of gravel. I screamed again when the cop pulled me upright. Blood was dripping from my arms and my calves and staining my socks.
The policeman said they’d loosen the cuffs if I answered their questions.
I agreed.
They asked me if I had been drinking or doing drugs.
I shook my head, “No,” thinking it was partly true because he’d asked about drugs, too. As I shook my head, I felt it fall to my shoulder. I just left it there.
The cop said I smelled like liquor and asked if I was intoxicated?
I told them, “Yes.”
I sat in the cop car for a long time. No one had loosened my cuffs yet—and sweat poured into my wounds. The saltiness stung, and the smell was making my stomach turn. I could see gravel in my knees and feel it on my palms and elbows. I looked over to the other car and saw Sam with his face down on the ground. Two cops were on top of him. He was put in a different car than me.
A cop finally came back over to me and loosened my cuffs. He got in the cruiser on the driver’s seat and pulled out of the cemetery. He didn’t say anything to me, which is kind of unusual (but I am in no way complaining) as we drove. I let my head hit the window with a thud and listened to his radio crackle and the dispatcher routinely spit out codes—of domestic disputes and auto theft.
The cop said he was taking me straight home, instead of to the station—which I was thankful for. We were almost at my street, when I hear the dispatcher say a name I knew, “Dylan.” I focused hard to understand what she was saying between crackles in the radio. When I heard his name, I started laughing; he was a really good friend of mine. My best friend. I probably would have been with him that night, if only he had answered his phone.
It was about two in the morning at this point. I was still buzzing from the liquor, and I started laughing at the idea of seeing Dylan at the police station. I wondered what he did to have the cops come to his house at this hour?
The dispatcher spoke in more codes, and then repeated his name. Then I heard her request an ambulance for him—due to a possible overdose.
At first, I didn’t believe it, but when I heard her say it again, I burst into tears and started crying. I was saying over and over, in between sobs, “No, no, I don’t believe it!” The cop asked me what was wrong and I told him I knew that guy.
When we got to my house, I was in hysterics. The cop helped me to the door and explained to my mom that I was drunk and was found in the cemetery with a group of boys. I sat in a chair listening to my mother and the cop talking in the doorway. I yelled to my mom about what I had heard over the dispatch radio and she looked over at me. Then the cop looked at my mom and asked if she knew anything about it.
It turned out—Dylan had overdosed. He must have run out of the house as soon as someone had discovered what he did. My mother said Dylan showed up at our house around 1:00 a.m., with no shoes and no shirt on. My mom gave him a shirt to wear and talked to him for a while. She noticed there was something wrong with him and asked him about it. Dylan told her that he had overdosed on his Prozac—and other medicines. She talked to him for a while—then he left.
Not knowing I was there, Dylan went to the cemetery. He had to walk through it to get to the quarry, a wooded area completely isolated at night. Dylan went to the quarry—and laid himself out to die. When the ambulance picked him up, they found a bottle of fifty mg Prozac and bunch of heart pills and cocaine in his system. Dylan was in a coma for a while—and then his heart stopped.
Something or someone can be torn from you so fast. They can just completely vanish—before you even know it. My time with Dylan seems like it was all a dream. I can’t help asking myself, “WHY DIDN’T I HELP HIM?” I tried; I FELT for him. I tried to be indifferent—and I think maybe he knew. All in all, I felt ultimately powerless. The effect of a friends suicide is so confusing; a mixture of loss and guilt. I guess I learned from it too, though. I guess I learned to appreciate people more now. So that just in case, I won’t have to appreciate them more when they’re gone.
Dear Nobody Page 7
