Spinning Out

Chapter 24

ELIJAH

If I ask permission, my parents will say no. It's late, and I have been out all day. I shouldn't be driving, but I can't say no to Bryant. Instead, I'll ask for forgiveness when they wake up. I don't even stop by the house, I just hit up the gas station on the way to the freeway and fill up my tank. The drive should take a little over two hours, but at this time of night and if I have any luck on my side, I can fly through the desert and be there before anyone really even notices I'm missing.

Bryant has been spiraling downhill for a while. His texts have been scattered and rarely make much sense. He gets really drunk and then messages me but doesn't remember the next day. I never thought my own friend would struggle with something as big as alcoholism, but it's getting harder and harder not to see this for exactly what it is. He's losing control.

The city traffic is nothing, a few large trucks making runs and some smaller vehicles probably coming home from a late shift at work, or zooming off to their partner's house When I'm bored, I try to figure out which it is. I'll never know for sure. Playing little games like this help to keep me away when the roads open up and the traffic is minimal. The old dial clicks as I crank up my AC, the cold air also working to keep my eyes open until I can get there. I'm hoping he hasn't forgotten he asked me to come by the time I pull into the drive at his grandma's place. That would be awkward.

I've been waiting for him to ask for help, which still has entirely come yet. So I'll take this off-the-cuff invite as my way in. The last few texts were alarming. I hope he isn't driving under the influence or putting himself at risk with people he shouldn't be around. Somehow he always knows how to find trouble. I never would have guessed he would stay away for so long so I am really beginning to believe that his life is so far out of control he can't imagine a way to step back into it in our hometown.

Bryant wasn't always like this. He didn't even have his first drink until we turned 15. I know, that seems young, but not around here and not for the city. A lot of my friend had their first drink before high school. It wasn't like the movies where he had a drink and loved it so much he couldn't stop. No, he hated alcohol. He hated it so much his face would turn sour and he'd have to breathe slowly so he wouldn't throw up. But sometimes people aren't attracted to the drink because of the way it tastes or the excitement of being at a party, sometimes they find it quiets a voice inside their head, or pushes down feelings of being shy. Bryant was the quiet kid. The one that never would talk to a girl or do anything daring. When he found alcohol, he told me the part of his brain that would tell him he wasn't good enough would get quiet. The worries that people would make fun of him or just not like him went away. The anxiety in him would be calm for the first time.

Things didn't get out of control for Bryant until this year. His drinking had been kept to just the weekends until we started our senior year. I'd smell it on his breath in the mornings and sometimes he'd be sneaking beer with his lunch after school while his parents were will out. I'm not even sure where he kept getting it from, but I imagine he found a place that didn't look closely enough at his fake ID and appreciated his constant flow of money he gave them. Also, him working at a local grocery store stalking shelves at night gave him access to making some of their alcohol disappear.

It's a crazy thing, denial. Our other friends laugh at him when he's drunk, and for a long time I did too. But the past few months, that laughter has dropped off as my disappointment in his behavior has raised. If you've ever watched anyone you care about struggle with addiction, then you know what it's like to watch someone make increasingly flippant decisions in their lives that have great effects on those around them. Getting drunk before an important event? Come one—don't be a party pooper. Drinking before classes on Monday—come on, he's just having a little fun. At some point you realize they can't make the choice not to drink. It's not about you being boring and them being the king of fun, it's about them not being able to spend one minute in their own skin without the help of what they are abusing. And that is exactly where we are at.

I see the exit ahead. We used to come out here in the summers to swim for the weekend, His grandparents retired in this town in the desert and while many young people spend time here, this is not where Bryant belongs. It's time for him to come home and face his problem head on.

ME: I'm pulling off the freeway

I don't get a response until I'm nearly in town. His response is just a pin. I follow the navigation until I arrive where he is. It's an old bar in a strip mall. While the window outside has a large decal stating no one under3 21 is allowed inside, there isn't anyone at the door and when I walk inside, not one head is lifted or turned in my direction. It's dark, and stuffy with aging pool tables that have seen better days, and pinball machines that flash lights into the otherwise bleak space.

I find my friend leaning precariously against a stool in the corner. I know the look. His eyes are bloodshot and his words slur together as he rises to great me. I'm glad I made it when I did. There may be other customers in here, but I wouldn't call them his friends. Stacks of quarters sit at the edge of the red-covered pool table, signaling that other players have called the next game.

"Let's get going," I say to him loudly over the 1990's pop song playing over the speakers.

"Nahhh, man. You just got here," he says, his arm wrapped around my shoulder, pulling me slightly off balance. We sway together.

The other men at the bar don't move. They watch us closely. He's over stayed his welcome. I can feel it in the air.

"I'm tired. I just drove for hours. Let's go crash and come back out tomorrow,' I say. It's not really the plan, but what I've learned is he will only argue with me and in the morning he isn't going to remember any of this at all. It's maddening. Entire days lost to the bottle. I honestly don't know how he lives like that. It seems counter intuitive to his anxiety. I guess if you never sober up though, you never have to deal with that.

"Fine," he slurs. "I'll catch you tomorrow," he tells the men. Pushing off of me he makes his way over to shake their hands but then his drunkenness makes him forget boundaries and he's going in for one-armed hugs. It's only tolerated because I'm here and he's leaving. The men play along and then go back to playing pool as I drag Bryant through the bar and out to my car.

I tuck him into the passenger seat and clip his seatbelt on. There's something that happens once we are away from the audience—he becomes a tired boy again. Gone is the bravado of a traveling pool shark and back is the tired teen who has been pretending for hours and needs to drop his mask and rest. He's snoring before we make it to the first light. It would be funny if it weren't so painful to me.