Godsend / Life Is Sweet / Little Secrets

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This was originally a scene in an early draft of "How To Leave Town," but for now, it'll stand alone as a memory I always come back to.

- -

It was the tail end of March, and we were the best friends for the next one hundred kilometers. All we did was read our research papers aloud to an audience of our parents, faculty, and everyone's girlfriends at the most rinky-dink community college academic conference on this side of the Red Deer River, but I think we felt like kings. We were writers. We were brothers. For the first time, we had shown each other we were in it for the long haul, like Goonies looking for the treasure of One-Eyed Willy. It was beautiful, and we barely spoke a word of how we felt about it to anyone. The only way I know how we felt was in how we would shout screeds against the other presenters and toast each other's erudition, oration, and writing. We were in the living room of the farmhouse J--- would housesit once a month, and I was significantly drunker than everyone - S-----, M--, J---, K---, J----n, and E---. The night was awkward with all the then strangers meeting each other for the first time, with J--- and I trying our best to be decent young adult hosts, but some of us jittered with victory too much for the party's vibe eventually collapsing into melancholy to bother us too much. I downed more Modelos. J--- complained about the music. I confessed I had not finished a single paper that semester, to the worry of everyone in the house. J--- had a panic attack upon E--- describing to them what a shaggy dog story was. E--- drunkenly played a John Maus song for me on the piano. Him and S----- did handstands, prompting J--- to whisper in my ear, "They must have crazy sex." We all started feeling like shit, and the winter night out in the country wandered into pitch darkness as usual, but in that basement, drunk and self-loathing, I felt love. I felt golden, honeyed love pour from the eyes and words of everyone in that house, enough to get me through myself and the winter. Even if nobody ever said it, I felt that life was a thing we could all take on with ready fists and shoulders beside each other, forever and ever.

The next morning, we went to the country to meet some delusional creationist guy. I lost my keys, I felt like a baby, and we listened to Slowdive. I could go on about it, but it was somewhat unpleasant, making it besides the point.

Earlier, in J---'s now old place, we undressed after a vaguely awkward dinner with my parents, fooling around as much as we could with a time limit of the party we were throwing. We tired out before we finished, as we often did, and got ready. J--- surprised me with a letter on their bed. I read it as they changed, tearing up, thanking them profusely, telling them that I would be happy if every day of my life was like this. We kissed. They assured me not to be nervous for my own party as we drove to score booze, listening to Beat Happening (my choice, obviously). It snowed in the way snow shoots from what would otherwise be storm clouds. I drove through it, feeling the totality of my life facing me like a smile. J--- bought a thing of Creamsicle craft whatevers, and I bought a case of Modelos I was alone in drinking. They complimented the cashier, which they often did. The city was dark by the time we left the liquor store. I don't know what I thought about looking at my car, knowing where we were going.

-

Earlier, at the conference, R--- showed up with his son. He was wearing his Sylvan sailors club shirt. His face rested like he had come a long way to be there. He insisted he wouldn't miss this and complimented my Foucault references. I thanked him for everything and apologized for all the coursework I owed him. He told me not to worry about it. J--- and him met, and he teased the idea of having them babysit. R--- was surprised to hear from them that I talk about him all the time. A day later, I would be hungover in that farmhouse, and J--- and I would make each other scrambled eggs, and they would tell me how much they think R--- loves me, and how he must see himself in me - in their words, "He thinks you're the version of himself that still has a chance" (J--- would often make proclamations like this) - and how much work it must've taken him to see me. This made me sob like a fucking baby on the floor. I still tear up thinking about it. I'm crying as I write this. I've never thanked him like I should have for coming to see me.

R---, I know you're out there. Thank you for being there for me all those months. You were kind of like a father to me when I stupidly decided to estrange myself from my family, even though I skipped your class all the time, which I'm still sorry for, even though I know you don't give a shit. You made me believe in myself. For that, I owe you whatever career as a cult novelist I'm destined to have. You're a better man than you think you are, and I love you.

To the weirdos that made me feel less alone during the darkest winter of my life, I love you all to the end of time.

- -

She dyed her hair red after the thing that happened, which only A-- and I ever talk about, as we're the only ones that know about it. It scares me to think why. I might have been the first to know about it when she called me in New York, which still feels cool to say. I was sick as a fucking dog staring out at the Empire State Building, looming a block away from me like a picture from a dream. I was alone in the hotel room, having decided to stay back as my family went out. Thinking of them and everyone back home, I kept thinking of myself as a prince in exile for a reason I'll pretend is less embarrassing than it being a Destroyer reference.
She was on her lunch and told me a story that was supposed to be funny, but to the both of us, felt more that it was filled with worms. Looking back, knowing what it was now, I wonder why this didn't alarm me more. She eventually give it to me straight a few weeks later when I got back, flooding me with guilt for not realizing sooner.
For the next few days, everything made me want to cry. I worked as a cashier then, and I was highly conscious of what it would look like for the lone young dude on cash to tear up randomly, despite the horrific fucking circumstances. Occasionally I'd want to collapse to the floor as I swept it, but never did. I'd truck through, letting everything out in my car when I finally clocked out. As a show of solidarity, or maybe as a way of keeping the memory of a person still horribly alive, I played two songs: "Angel From Montgomery" for me, "Jackie & Wilson" for her. I didn't realize the name of the latter until she introduced it as her favourite song of all time. J--- used to play it while we layed in their old bed all the time. Obviously, all these things colliding into each other fried my fucking brain for a weekend.
Every time I drive by the old apartment, I get sad. Obviously, I get fucking sad. I think about us pity-kissing each other and drinking gin and juice to The Lonely Island, talking about boys and feelings. I think about how that all went up in fucking smoke. I miss the smell of cigarettes and the cold on her balcony. I miss the way thrifted patchwork sweaters look pretty when they're worn earnestly, or how cocktails can feel like a genuine gesture of care. I miss her boyfriend not knowing if I was gay in light of how drunken cuddles with the girls never struck anyone as anything other than platonic. I miss drives to the one and only liquor store downtown that's open until 2 a.m., where I would play Built To Spill, and I'd hear from the backseat that "Very coming-of-age music, Ben," and "Did you know I love you guys?"

I'm not really sure why it all went to shit, despite the obvious. But I'm not going to say a thing about what that is, though.

I'm so sorry you hurt so much, They Who Shall Remain Nameless (TWSRN). Sometimes I feel like one of the few people that really get to see it. I don't even think you see how much it is. You blame yourself for fucking everything. And sure, you're endlessly feisty, and maybe that is to your detriment, but I don't live with your fucked up house, and that quality has always been something we all love about you. I digress. You blame yourself for fucking everything, and you shouldn't. A lot of our friends have made real mistakes they have to pay for, including me. I know you think you're with us there, but, if we're being honest, you're not. At least I don't think so, TWSRN. You, perhaps more than anyone, deserve forgiveness. No homo, but I often hope you'll meet someone who will love you in a way that'll make you realize it was never your fault. I hope you get to cry in the arms of a guy who can actually look at you in the eye and say he feels the same way about you, and I hope the pain that's turned your bones to glass leaves your body for a moment, and you get rest. For fucking once, I hope you can rest. Thank you for all the hours making me laugh and listening to each other whine. You deserve love.

- -

My Big Confession is out. Welp, shit. Yeah. That just happened! Completely blew a perfectly good opportunity to reveal that after the dust has actually settled and it wasn't like merely a fucking year ago, but what's done is done, and I'm practically a open book to you now. Next time this happens, I'm going to promise myself I won't be as reckless as I was with you. You know, with the whole you-currently-being-in-a-relationship thing, which is almost to imply I'm intruding on that by confessing this to you. Obviously, that isn't true, and I should relax a little bit, even though I'd go about this completely differently if given a second chance and no alcohol (that's been a common theme here tonight). But, yeah. Now you know me again.

I'll make sure you'll keep knowing me.

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