I know. Life isn’t fair. But just once, I wanted love to be fair. I did everything right. Everything. And now I’m losing you, aren’t I?
You knock over someone’s glass of beer and you snip. “Damn it, Lonnie, there are coasters.”
Lonnie apologizes and you’re crying again. “I’m sorry. I just… I’m so mad I could kill him.”
Lonnie says that’s natural—since when is nature a synonym for good?—and she’s encouraging you to let it all out and no! You know better, Mary Kay. You don’t want to kill him because you read his favorite fucking book and I read it too. We both know that addiction is a disease and these “friends”—you’ve never mentioned Lonnie, not once—they’re not on your side. They’re not helping and if anything, they’re making it worse by validating every mistruth you speak and in that way, they’re like Phil’s fucking family.
What a bunch, Mary Kay! His mother and father are already gone, as if they have somewhere else to be, and the brother never even came. Classy. According to the obituary, the brother is a well-known life coach, which might be why he couldn’t afford a fucking plane ticket. Well-known is code for 21,000 followers and Tony Robbins he is not and I want things to go back to normal. I want Phil’s parents to get on a plane and go back to Florida. Maybe they’ll leave tomorrow. They didn’t show up at your wake party tonight—We’re mourning privately—but oh fuck you, Phil’s family. Nobody likes hospitals and nobody likes funerals but we all know that sometimes you have to suck it up and go. And if they were decent people, you might not be quite so bad off.
You’re so guilt-stricken that you’re rewriting history and hiding behind your invisible, brand-new rose-colored glasses. “He really was amazing…” Oh come on, Mary Kay. “People don’t realize, he gave up his career to be home…” Lie. He couldn’t get along with his bandmates and he had songwriter’s block. “He was the best dad, we had all these great day trips to Seattle…” That’s another lie. He was your teenage son storming off to play with guitars while you and the Meerkat wasted money on tchotchkes. You blow your nose into a cocktail napkin. “And I just should have known.”
The Mothball takes you in her old lady arms and you’re weeping again and now I feel guilty for being so hard on you. I know it’s hard to lose someone, but Jesus Christ, Mary Kay, you should lean into your rage because you’re right to be mad. Addiction is a disease, yes, but he was a husband and he was a father and instead of getting help, instead of taking care of himself so that he could stay alive for his daughter, he jumped off the wagon. You slip off to powder your nose—poor choice of words, considering—and you cry more. You know it was a poor choice of words and the Meerkat is still in a coma on the sofa. Staring at you. She’s not crying. She can’t cry because you won’t stop crying. I grab another slice of Bene pizza, a bigger one this time, and I fold it in half and pop the whole fucking thing in my mouth.
Shortus elbows me. “？’Sup. Where you been? I haven’t seen you at the gym.”
That’s Shortus for you. We’re at a fucking funeral luncheon and he’s talking about CrossBore. He picks up a celery stick and chomps. “Don’t be letting yourself go,” he says. “Don’t wanna wind up like this guy.”
The insensitivity of this poor dolt, and I pick a red pepper flake out of my mouth. “It’s just a little pizza.”
“You ever try it?” he asks. And then he drops his voice to a whisper. “Heroin?”
“No,” I say. “You?”
“I never would.” He shudders. “I don’t get it… Don’t these people know about endorphins? Honestly, don’t they know about sex?”
It’s the worst thing to be forced to imagine right now, Shortus sticking his Shortus inside some toned, nerve-ending-less CrossBore addict and it’s a reminder that three days ago, in another lifetime, I was one of the happy people on this planet. I was having sex with you. I scan the room and you’re not back and in the library, you never slip out without letting me know where you’re going.
You’re crossing over and it’s like I don’t exist, like you don’t want me to exist and the Meerkat isn’t on the couch anymore. She’s gone too. I pick up my plastic glass of Eleven Winery wine. “I hear you,” I say, because I learned my lesson and I won’t waste my time debating with another stubborn, irrational dog. “I’m gonna get some fresh air.”
You’re not in the powder room and I can’t go upstairs—we’re still a secret, even if you haven’t kissed me or talked to me since you deserted me at Fort Ward—and I step out the side door because maybe you are smoking. You did that with the rat long ago.
“Hey.”
It’s the Meerkat and she’s smoking, ripping on her bong. “Nomi,” I say. “I realize it’s a stupid question, but how are you?”
“Fucked in the head. You?”
I sip my plastic wine and she motions for the cup and she’s underage but she saw a dead body for the first time in her life—been there—so I give her my plastic chalice and she gulps it all down, too much, too fast. “Are your parents alive?”
“Honestly, I’m not sure.”
“What did they do to you that was so shitty that you don’t know?”
“They ignored me.”
She nods. “Fuck ’em.”
“Nah,” I say, Good Joe, Compassionate Joe. “I used to feel that way. But you get older, you realize that you don’t really hate anyone, even your shitty parents, because everyone’s just doing the best they can.”
She coughs. Still not good at working that bong, still doesn’t have any friends. I counted two teenagers inside and one was here with her parents and the other was here for the wine. “That’s deep, Joe.”
“Not really,” I say. The last thing I want is for your Meerkat to feel that on today, the second-worst day of her life, she has to be polite and grateful. See, Mary Kay—I wish you could see me right now. I am Jack Nicholson at the end of Terms of Endearment. I am stepping up with your kid and I am ready to be a stepfather. I am here to help.
She puts her bong in an empty planter and she yawns and her arms are outstretched above her head and she bursts out laughing. I don’t laugh with her and I don’t judge her and soon she’s doubled over—I’m gonna pee my pants—and I tell her it’s okay to do that, it’s okay to do anything right now.
She rolls her eyes and snorts. “Yeah right.”
“I mean it, Nomi. It’s hard to lose someone. Your mother knows that.”
We hear footsteps and the door opens. Shortus. “Oh,” he says. “So this is where the party’s at.”
It was his way of trying to ease the tension—fucking idiot is scared of real emotions—and Nomi doesn’t laugh at the joke and he throws his arms around her.
“I’m so sorry, Nomi. I just know that he loved you more than anything on the planet.”
Except for heroin, the sound of his own voice, a woman’s mouth wrapped around his Philstick, and his music, but that’s funerals for you. They bring out the stupid in everyone, especially the stupid.