ONE / dark

June 18 –       Dekalb, Illinois

I pull into a parking space just outside our apartment door, for the last time. The sun reflects off the hood and into my eyes. Eminem’s Walk on Water stops abruptly.

Brody and I get out and walk around to the back of the car.

“That was epic, bro,” he says, with his cheesy grin.

“I can’t believe half of what we did,” I say, smiling. “I’m glad you decided to come along.”

Then, a few seconds later, I say, “These are gonna make for some great memories someday.”

“Yeah,” he says, still smiling, “yeah, they will. That was one hell of a last hurrah.”

He puts his hands on my shoulders, and with his brows raised, looks me in the eyes and says in a serious tone, “Good luck with everything.” Then nodding, adds, “And Jack, if you need anything, call me.” 

“You too,” I say, then add, “Shit, you’re gonna be working in a few days. I feel for you.” I smirk.

“I know. It all starts now … real life.”

“For you, yeah,” I say. “But I’m still in limbo.”

We share a long, tight hug, ending with pats on each other’s backs.

He grabs his backpack which leaves only my two large duffel bags in the trunk. I lower the hatch.

I get in the car and, as I’m backing up, I say out the window, “I’ll keep in touch.”

As I pull away, from the rearview, I see Brody waving his farewell as Eminem continues his rant. I widen my eyes to keep from tearing up; I have difficulty swallowing. I’m going to miss him, and my life here.

I just dropped off my best friend from college at our soon to be old apartment. We just returned from a three-week road trip to California, and points in between. It was full of outdoor adventures; days in the wild hiking through canyons, climbing mountains, and swimming in ice-cold lakes. We had some wild adventures in cities, too.

As I drive through campus, I pass the dorm I lived in freshman year. It is there, where I met those who I’d end up spending most of my time with the last two years. I stop at the convenience store where I know my fake I.D. will work. I fill an extra-large Styrofoam cup with ice and grab two cans of Wicked Cider from the cooler. Sitting in my car, I empty both into my cup, then toss the empty cans in the garbage as I roll past. This well-practiced routine is my secret. 

My sadness remains as I leave this town that has been my home. I think about the fact that nearly everything I own is in these two duffels. It feels good in a way, the freedom, but I also wish I had deeper roots.

Brody just graduated from Northern.

I just flunked out.

He landed a good job in Denver.

While I … have no idea.

I head north, toward Madison, Wisconsin, to visit Jimmy, my best friend from high school. I sip my drink and think about tonight. I’m excited to finally see the U.W. campus and am stoked for a night out. I feel bad I haven’t been up to see him the last two years. Last year, he took the bus to see me. It would have been much easier for me, with my car. My car; when my mom bought it for me junior year, she said, “You better take care of it, you’re not getting another.” And I have.

The drive north is easy. It’s just a hundred miles straight up I-90. I cross the border and the scenery changes, from farmers’ fields to rolling hills of green. I think about my life, really dwell, uncertain where to go from here. 

This visit to Madison is my way of putting off going to see my mom and brothers. I haven’t told her about failing out. She has no clue. I didn’t even tell her I was going out West. 

I feel like a loser, failing at something I know I could do. I know my mom is going to be disappointed in me. So will my dad. 

A question I always ask. “And dad?” 

The scenes of that day flash in my head, despite my efforts to forget. A painful memory that I’ll do almost anything to avoid.

I drive too fast and think about what to do with my life.

Get a real job, nine-to-five …  but then I’d be stuck.

Go to community college … and study what.

Once home, I fear my bad habits will return. Booze and drugs with a group I’d escaped, but going back, the temptation remains.

My days will be empty … fuck.

Vanlife is something I’ve considered. Living out of a cheap van, or even my car … travelling around with a dog. It’s not like I have close friends around anyway. It wouldn’t be a bad life; too bad money’s a thing. I have some saved, but it’s not enough to last.

While I’m at a loss for my next step, I feel worse for my mom. She’s always supported me, in every way she could; even spoiling me, if I’m honest. My failing out of school is clearly on me, but, knowing her, she’ll take responsibility, thinking it was something she did wrong raising me. I know that’s not true. She is hardworking, always doing her best. She’s raising three boys alone, which, sometimes, I’m sure, has her feeling overwhelmed.

My failure … I don’t want her to feel that. I don’t want her to see that, every day.

But right now, it’s my only option.

Ideally, I’d be going back to school in the fall. My college days were a blast. Away from home for the first time; I loved hanging with my volleyball crew, our passion shared; exploring myself in altered states and, of course, the girls. It was the best time of my life.

But my laziness ruined it. That was the only thing. A couple of friends are transferring, but I’m the only one who failed out; everyone else not graduating will be back. I’ll miss all the fun times I could have had.

What I need to do while I’m in Madison, is come up with a plan; something to tell my mom. I’ve tried to think up something before, but my mind just wanders. Maybe a deadline will help … I have until Sunday night. If I can’t, I’ll need to make one up as I go along, and I’m afraid where that might lead.

I find a spot in the suggested lot and use Google to find his place.

Walking … it feels great after being cooped up in a car for the last thirty-six hours straight. My head dances as Uptown Funkplays on repeat through Air Pods; my buzz near its peak.

The weather is perfect; sunny and seventy-five degrees. The time, half past seven. I’m in a t-shirt, shorts, and sandals.

Jimmy opens the door, a smile on his clean-shaven face.

We hug.

“It’s great to see you, Jack.”

“You too,” I say, my smile affixed.

I walk in. It’s immaculate. No surprise there. He has framed pictures on the wall, a couch, a table, and four chairs. 

“So, what are you up for tonight? I know you’ve been driving for days.”

“I’m good. I’d love to hit a bar or two.”

“Yeah. If that’s what you want. I’m sure it’ll be fun.”

I drop my bag and we head straight out. A couple of hours later, we are sitting in a bar. Jimmy nurses his first beer, while I’m on my third. He never was much of a drinker. We trade stories of our high school days; cruising around in my car, going on double dates, getting sick after chewing his dad’s tobacco. These times I look back on and smile. He had been my best friend since the first grade, living just across the alley. As we got older, he was the only friend who stayed sober.

I tell him about my recent road trip.

He talks of home and school.

Eventually, he says, “I’ve got an early class.”

I respond, “Okay, just one more.”

Thirty minutes later, we’re on our way back to his apartment. There’s been no deep conversation, mostly me sharing stories of my drunken escapades. Then Jimmy starts to speak, “I hope…”, he hesitates, then says, “I hope you can get things figured out. If not for you, at least for your mom’s sake.”

I feel hurt.

“Don’t worry. I will,” I say, a little too aggressively.

“You haven’t been home to see your family since Christmas. How do you think that makes your mom feel?”

“I don’t have to explain myself.”

“You don’t, but you should to your mom,” he says. “And, why you wasted the last two years.”

I remain silent. 

“You have a good heart, Jack. I’ve seen it. But you just can’t keep running—and you should watch your drinking.”

“I’m not running,” I snap. “And, I have cut back.” I lie.

“Okay … It’s just that I’m worried about you,” he says as he reaches out and touches my shoulder.

I look down. “You don’t need to worry.” 

“If I can do anything, just let me know.”

“There is nothing you can do. It’s me. I’ve got to figure it out.”

“Make sure you do.” 

He gets off the couch and points to a closet. “There are pillows and blankets in there. Sleep well.”

“Good night,” I say, my head still hanging down, my eyes closed.

I appreciate that he’s always been there for me; but his perfection is sometimes hard to take. I don’t feel jealous, as I don’t want to be like him, but I struggle when it’s obvious that I don’t measure up.

After his bedroom door closes, I get up and walk to the fridge. Inside, a six-pack of Coors Light, my favorite.