(no subject)
I.
He keeps going and keeps pushing it. I hold my breath for the next move, this eternal gamble, this game of chess, our tug of war. To document this series of events seems futile because there will always be another, there will always be one more until he vanishes completely.
At the bar, not an hour into their party and he is completely trashed. His words, slurring, as he runs his hands around the woman next to him- a mutual co-worker of ours who smiles at the affection. I am sitting across from him watching the progression of empty to full to empty again, not saying much. He drains the glass as if it were his last every time. Finally, he stands to leave. Attempts to stand.
As I unlock my bike from his I close my eyes against the image of his feet failing, knees buckling, the swaying of his body backwards while he laughs. He cannot stand on his own anymore and so he leans heavily against the bike as he goes around the corner.
I am overcome with worry and so I follow as our friends give me a now familiar look of pity. J. looks and me and mouths, "Thank you".
I find him slumped over, barely coherent. I take his bike and smooth the sweat off of his brow. "Stay here," I say. "Don't move". Running up the hill, bike in tow, it is all I can do to hold back the tears, this frustration. When I return I am carrying a glass of water from the bar. He has not moved except to lean even more heavily into the telephone pole next to him. At first he swats my hand away and as I push the water towards him again he is overcome by nausea and begins to vomit, a violent sea of liquid the color of rust. He shouts at me to leave.
An hour later, after he has consumed half a glass of water and poured the other half on my leg; after he has gone stumbling down the block, after I have returned to the bar; after I have slung his bike over my bag, over my shoulder, have coasted down Denny and pushed hard up third avenue, I arrive at his apartment. He comes to the door- alive- and looking like death warmed over.
II.
The track frame that I have had in storage now sits in my kitchen, surrounded by parts. I am going to build this bike and I am going to race this bike. My body, although not quite as lean at it once was, is strong. I still have something to fight for even if the rest of the world has given up hope.
He keeps going and keeps pushing it. I hold my breath for the next move, this eternal gamble, this game of chess, our tug of war. To document this series of events seems futile because there will always be another, there will always be one more until he vanishes completely.
At the bar, not an hour into their party and he is completely trashed. His words, slurring, as he runs his hands around the woman next to him- a mutual co-worker of ours who smiles at the affection. I am sitting across from him watching the progression of empty to full to empty again, not saying much. He drains the glass as if it were his last every time. Finally, he stands to leave. Attempts to stand.
As I unlock my bike from his I close my eyes against the image of his feet failing, knees buckling, the swaying of his body backwards while he laughs. He cannot stand on his own anymore and so he leans heavily against the bike as he goes around the corner.
I am overcome with worry and so I follow as our friends give me a now familiar look of pity. J. looks and me and mouths, "Thank you".
I find him slumped over, barely coherent. I take his bike and smooth the sweat off of his brow. "Stay here," I say. "Don't move". Running up the hill, bike in tow, it is all I can do to hold back the tears, this frustration. When I return I am carrying a glass of water from the bar. He has not moved except to lean even more heavily into the telephone pole next to him. At first he swats my hand away and as I push the water towards him again he is overcome by nausea and begins to vomit, a violent sea of liquid the color of rust. He shouts at me to leave.
An hour later, after he has consumed half a glass of water and poured the other half on my leg; after he has gone stumbling down the block, after I have returned to the bar; after I have slung his bike over my bag, over my shoulder, have coasted down Denny and pushed hard up third avenue, I arrive at his apartment. He comes to the door- alive- and looking like death warmed over.
II.
The track frame that I have had in storage now sits in my kitchen, surrounded by parts. I am going to build this bike and I am going to race this bike. My body, although not quite as lean at it once was, is strong. I still have something to fight for even if the rest of the world has given up hope.