boys & flowers

yellow roses (friendship)

It was around this time I considered learning to drive again.

Bumming rides off of people and walking are only fun for so long, and I wanted some independence back. There weren't many obstacles - my accident, though severe, wasn't exactly my fault according to the investigators, my testimony that I barely got through, and cameras on the building we were close to. However, I did steal the car. That black mark in my record made it difficult to move on with life.

As it neared my 26th birthday, I was eligible to earn my license back.

But whenever Cartman opened the door of his Toyota and gestured for me to get in, I found myself at a standstill, unable to climb in and wrap my fingers around the leather wheel.

"We'll just go around the block," he'd say. "It's only 20 miles per hour, slow enough for you to get used to again."

"With my luck, I'll probably still hit someone's dog."

"Yeah, I'd say that's lucky," he said, grinning from under that rug of unwashed hair and whatever band-themed beanie he wore that day.

"You're awful."

"You know what's actually awful? You're not even giving yourself a chance."

"I'll fuck it up."

"You don't know that unless you try. If you go in convinced that you're going to fuck it up, then you'll fuck it up."

"And if I don't?"

"Then you'll be pleasantly surprised."

"So, either way, I should keep my expectations low."

"You're just twisting shit around now, Kahl."

Cartman sees right through me 110% of the time. We're both excellent at talking our way out of things we don't want to do.

This was something I wanted, but I still walked away. After a month of him trying to get me back on the road, he gave up. I don't blame him.

When I relayed this strife to Craig one day after Susan has left and we had those lazy last minutes in the lab, I thought he would side with Cartman, but instead, he set down the flask he was washing out and shook his head.

"He shouldn't be pushing you like that. You're not god damn Ricky Bobby."

I laughed. Out of all the references he could make, he chose a fictional Nascar driver.

"Cartman would definitely put a cougar in the car and tell me to drive with the manifested fear."

"Sounds like it."

"Really though, he'd probably dump all of Stan and Wendy's cats in the car with me. I don't know which would be worse."

"You should drive again only if you feel like it. Only when you're ready."

By now, Craig knew almost everything about my current life: our two-story house that was converted into a tattoo parlor and apartment, the occasional yelling or moaning that drifted up through my floorboards, the garden that I was working so diligently on, our Sunday night smoke-outs with Stan, Wendy, and the cats. All of Cartman and Kenny's eccentricities. I told him about managing South Perk - how instead of getting raises, the owner gave me baklava. And one night, after an overtime shift, someone left an eighth of weed in the tip jar (which I gladly took). A few days before I got the call for the lab job, Tweek dropped a macaron and screamed bloody murder as it rolled across the tile like a spare tire.

I even shared some things about Bebe. Mostly her expectations, and my failure to meet those expectations. The oh so loving name of "prize donkey" she'd given me, her comment on my "ugly scar," to which he said, "I like your tattoos. I would get one but I feel like I wouldn't be able to decide on what to get."

I tried to be objective as possible when I talked about what happened, even saying nice things about her so it wouldn't seem like I was complaining, but bias was forming on his part.

He had yet to say anything about my scarring. When he looked at me now, he looked straight into my eyes. It was unnerving at first, but as the weeks progressed, it made me hard. Then weak.

Over the last few days, I had learned three more things about him:

His mother owns a supermarket and his little sister works as a cashier there.

He owns an entire bookshelf of German literature dating from the 1700s to the 20th century. (I asked how much he rereads them and he rolled his eyes at me)

He is obsessed with politics and keeps a pocket-sized version of the U.S. Constitution in his office. (I had yet to see his office or understand what he was talking about when he whipped out his senatorial jargon) (I often snuck out my phone to look up what he was talking about so he wouldn't think I was dumb) (At the time I didn't consume a lot of political content because it gives me anxiety)

I was learning how he needed to be talked to, and from his point of view, it must have sounded like Cartman was being straight-up cruel to me rather than trying to supplement my wanting to drive but shrinking away in fear.

"I want to get my license back, I told him that. But when it comes time to get in the car, I freeze up."

"Oh, okay. I get that. I got into an accident when I was 19 and was too scared to drive for a while. It took my mom at least a year to convince me to get back on the freeway."

"What happened?" I turned off the ladybug radio that was playing some mellow 80s jam. "If you don't mind me asking."

"I don't mind."

We were closing up shop now, making sure the machines were unplugged, the surfaces sanitized. The lights were off, and we stood for a moment, alone with only the evening sunlight stretched across the floor.

"I got lucky," he said. "My Jeep stalled out on the way to work and this lady rear-ended me. It wasn't her fault, though. You know how early morning traffic can be. I ended up drifting into the middle of the highway and got hit by another car. The back of my head whacked the seat so hard that I had migraines for a month. I had to go to physical therapy. It sucked."

"Wow..."

"And I really shouldn't have done this, but I was afraid I was going to get hit again, so I left the car."

He opened the door for me and we went out into the hallway.

"What do you mean? You didn't actually run out into the road, did you?"

"I did... I ran over to the median and called 911."

"Someone could have run over you..."

"I know, but as I said, I was 19. I wasn't thinking."

"Wow..." I said again.

On the elevator ride down, I imagined what Craig was like at 19. How different would he have been? It was almost a decade ago. When he was 19, I was 17. Would we have been friends if we had known each other? I doubted it. It might have been another awkward Adam situation.

As we approached the ground floor, I said, "I'm glad you made it out of that okay."

He looked me up and down, then smiled, full-teeth. "Me too."

I wanted to say, don't look at me like that.

And he'd say, like what?

Like you want me.

But I do.