Friends in Low Places
Isaac Mendez had a favorite sweater. It was gray, threadbare, and a bit oversized. Usually it lay crumpled in a heap on his floor along with all the rest of his clothes, but the fact which most concerned him was that he always knew where it was should he need or want it. He didn't wear it during the day now, the summer heat made even the most comfortable sweater feel more than a bit stifling.
When the sun set, it was a different story. After the last beams of yellow and orange could no longer be seen against the horizon Isaac would immediately pad across the loft in his bare feet to wherever the sweater may lie. He didn't bother with socks because it wasn't that he was actually cold. The sweater was a security blanket of sorts and it was simply too hot to wear it during the day. It was a comfort to pull the soft wool over his head which slipped through the hole in the top in an easily practiced movement.
It was always the same series of actions, first came the head and neck, then he would slip his hands and arms through the sleeves, punching the air horizontally as he extended the arms by the elbow, only to bend them again to pull the sweater where it would inevitably fold at his chest and tug it in a downward motion to cover the rest of his torso. It was nice to have a routine with this particular article of clothing. It had come with him when he had moved from Texas to New York to begin his career as a comic book artist. He had been wearing it when he crossed the final state line during the long road trip, everything which his could call his packed inside the confines of his car. The sweater was there when he had met his future landlord and agreed on the terms of rent. It had hung on the bedpost and greeted him when he returned from the store carrying his first bag of art supplies he had bought since moving.
The sweater was warmer than a blanket on those nights when he couldn't sleep, tossing and turning against the sheets to no avail. It has seen his first significant mental block, when he couldn't finish the painting commissioned for the grand opening of the local neighborhood grocery store. He had rolled away one of the long, baggy sleeves to solve this problem, pushing it much higher than necessary, just under the shoulder. The sweater had been pushed away and harshly disregarded as if the arm could no longer stand having it cover the skin underneath. The body was no longer satisfied with mere clothing, it wanted the needle, the one which Isaac had thus far prevented himself from using since the move.
The rest of the fabric still lay against his body as the needle sank deeper and deeper, piercing an area of the skin which would soon look like the other scars around it. Like a loving, yet forgotten friend, the sweater enveloped Isaac in a hug during that first night that he let himself slip back into habit.
The sleeve had easily returned when Isaac pulled it back down over his arm, covering something of which he would later be ashamed. As he sat on the floor, back leaning against the wall, he gave himself to substance, sinking into its calm undertow, more than willing to drown into a lack of control. When Isaac came to he would later instinctively tug at the wool over his arms. The sleeves would always be his favorite.
When the sun set, it was a different story. After the last beams of yellow and orange could no longer be seen against the horizon Isaac would immediately pad across the loft in his bare feet to wherever the sweater may lie. He didn't bother with socks because it wasn't that he was actually cold. The sweater was a security blanket of sorts and it was simply too hot to wear it during the day. It was a comfort to pull the soft wool over his head which slipped through the hole in the top in an easily practiced movement.
It was always the same series of actions, first came the head and neck, then he would slip his hands and arms through the sleeves, punching the air horizontally as he extended the arms by the elbow, only to bend them again to pull the sweater where it would inevitably fold at his chest and tug it in a downward motion to cover the rest of his torso. It was nice to have a routine with this particular article of clothing. It had come with him when he had moved from Texas to New York to begin his career as a comic book artist. He had been wearing it when he crossed the final state line during the long road trip, everything which his could call his packed inside the confines of his car. The sweater was there when he had met his future landlord and agreed on the terms of rent. It had hung on the bedpost and greeted him when he returned from the store carrying his first bag of art supplies he had bought since moving.
The sweater was warmer than a blanket on those nights when he couldn't sleep, tossing and turning against the sheets to no avail. It has seen his first significant mental block, when he couldn't finish the painting commissioned for the grand opening of the local neighborhood grocery store. He had rolled away one of the long, baggy sleeves to solve this problem, pushing it much higher than necessary, just under the shoulder. The sweater had been pushed away and harshly disregarded as if the arm could no longer stand having it cover the skin underneath. The body was no longer satisfied with mere clothing, it wanted the needle, the one which Isaac had thus far prevented himself from using since the move.
The rest of the fabric still lay against his body as the needle sank deeper and deeper, piercing an area of the skin which would soon look like the other scars around it. Like a loving, yet forgotten friend, the sweater enveloped Isaac in a hug during that first night that he let himself slip back into habit.
The sleeve had easily returned when Isaac pulled it back down over his arm, covering something of which he would later be ashamed. As he sat on the floor, back leaning against the wall, he gave himself to substance, sinking into its calm undertow, more than willing to drown into a lack of control. When Isaac came to he would later instinctively tug at the wool over his arms. The sleeves would always be his favorite.