Calling Him By My Name [Armie Hammer + Timothée Chalamet | Charmie | mxb]

33 | Armie

The skyline is speckled with dazzling electric green, gold and fluorescent red pinpricks. Sparkling LEDs and city lights blind me as I drive past the massive holiday ice rink in Pershing Square. The rink is framed on one side by palm trees and there's still a herculean Christmas tree in the centre arrayed with a galaxy of gorgeous lights that shine like a million multi-coloured stars in the cobalt darkness.

A glance at the dashboard confirms that the hour is an ungodly one to be driving at, but I'm fully alert. As soon as I got Timmy's call I left my sleeping wife and children to go pick him up in a heartbeat, all traces of exhaustion vanishing. In my mad rush, I didn't ask any questions, but they pop up in my head when I pull up to the address Timmy gave me and find his stick figure huddled alone in the dark. I unlock the door.

A concerned baby is on the tip of my tongue; I check myself at the last second.

"Timmy - what's wrong?"

Timmy slips into the passenger seat looking sheepish and reserved, staring vacantly at the hole-in-the-wall establishment where he just spent the night.

"Literally nothing. Eric's friends just suck, that's all."

He rests his forehead against the glass windowpane in a way that reminds me of a petulant teenager. I wonder if I'll be picking my kids up from parties like this in the future. "Thanks for coming to get me. You didn't have to."

"It's no problem." I back out of the parking lot, shifting gears and merging back onto the road with surprising ease given the fact that it's one in the morning and I'm in nothing but my pyjama boxers and the random pair of soccer cleats I grabbed on my way out. I'm just grateful to have remembered my driver's license.

My hands thread over the wheel in the ensuing silence, eyes occasionally shifting over to the sullen boy across the console from me. I clear my throat, open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

It's pitch-black out, and kind of chilly. I wish I'd grabbed a sweater. But there was no time for luxuries like that when I thought Timmy was in danger. And the questions come flooding back in.

"So, uh..." I fix my gaze on the road ahead. "Is Eric alright? I'm assuming he drove you guys to his friend's..."

"He got drunk and passed out on the floor."

My hands tighten on the wheel.

"That seems pretty irresponsible."

Timmy shrugs.

"We all do it."

"No. We don't all do it," is my strained reply. If Timmy were in my care for a night, I'd make damn sure I was sober enough to drive us back home safely, or at the very least make sure we had a designated driver who could. This is basic shit, and I'm kind of itching to lecture Timmy on it. But I don't think it'd go over well, especially because he's not really the right audience; Eric is.

There's other stuff I want to know, like was Timmy safe, did anyone threaten him, why did he want to leave early, but I don't think Timmy will be telling me anything more tonight. I'm just glad he's here in the car with me, safe. Nothing else matters right now.

"Should I drop you off at Eric's?"

"Yeah, I have a key," he mumbles. "Sorry again for waking you."