syd
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Feb 18, 2005
- Messages
- 273
Haven’t you seen anyone Sydie?
No.
Well haven’t you even been with someone since…?
No.
Not even to a massage parlor or_
No I haven’t Johnny. Just drop it.
Syd, I just worry_
Don’t. I’m fine.
He exhales a thick stream of blueish white smoke from his cheap cigar, leans back in the hardwood booth and looks around. The Green Room is crowded for a Tuesday night. Shitty pop and hip hop pour from the juke as everyone around you laughs and drinks and smokes. You stare John Boy in the eye until he looks away.
Aren’t you gonna eat your burger, he asks.
I can’t eat that shit. It’ll make me sick. I told you not to order me anything.
You light a cigarette and tap your matches on the heavily marked table in an effort to kill the awkwardness the silence between you has created. You know why he has asked you here, and you can tell by the way he nervously taps the ash from his putrid cigar that he is only trying to find the words to breach the subject again.
Look Syd, I’m not going to pretend to know what you’re going through.
Then don’t.
And I know you’re hurting, but you’ve got to snap out of this.
He looks you in the eye trying to read your response. This time you look away and dig a couple of Xanax from your frayed jeans.
Aren’t you gonna say anything?
Want a football?
I’m fucking serious here Syd. I’m trying to talk to you. You should take it easy with that shit anyway. You’ve been hitting the bottle pretty hard tonight.
That’s one of the advantages of being a drunk, you can handle your pills with your booze, you say, washing the little blue footballs down with the last sip of Dewars.
You’re not a drunk
You choke on the last bit of scotch lingering in your throat as you raise a hand to your mouth and stifle the laugh.
I hold no illusions about that, you say.
That’s part of your fucking problem. When did you develop such a low opinion of yourself? It’s like you’ve digressed back to some Catcher in the Rye phase.
Are you trying to make me feel better, you ask. Cause its working.
Fuck you. I’m trying to get you to wake up before it’s too late. Lara’s been gone now, what, four, five months?
Four months, two weeks and three days, you say.
That’s exactly what I’m talking about. You’ve got to let this go. It wasn’t your fault. She was a stubborn fuck just like you.
You slam your half smoked cigarette into the black plastic ashtray hard enough to shoot sparks in all directions.
Where the fuck do you get off talking to me like this? When Tammy kicked your sorry ass out, did I ever give you shit about it? No. I gave you a place to stay and listened to your bullshit. When I didn’t see you for months at a time, did I ever ask you for where you had been? And that whole fucking time you were a smack head, did I ever point my finger at you? No. Everyone else did, but I didn’t. I stood up for you and told everyone you knew what you were doing.
I just want to help Syd.
Maybe I don’t want your fucking help. Maybe I don’t want anyone’s fucking help.
You exhale heavily and try to explain yourself.
I watched her do it. I watched her kill herself everyday. I caught her puking up breakfast, lunch and dinner. I watched her waste away to eighty-eight pounds. I watched her yellow tears roll down her cheeks and held her close instead of helping her, talking to her about it. We drank and smoked and snorted and ignored it. I let her do it. Now you fucking tell me John Boy, exactly how long does it take to get over that? Exactly how many shots of whiskey and lines of coke does it take to make the regret go away, because I’m terribly fucking interested to know when I can sleep through the night without dreaming of her sunken face begging me to help her.
She wouldn’t want you to kill yourself too, he says. Christ Syd, you didn’t even recognize me the other night.
You begin to feel the familiar sting in the corners of your eyes and turn ninety degrees in the booth. Quietly you say to the crowds of people, fuck you. What would you know about us anyway? I’ve barely heard from you until the funeral. Now you want me to what? Pour my heart out to you? Maybe cry in front of all these people?
I’m still your friend Sydie.
You rub your tired eyes and say, I need a fucking drink.
He tosses a twenty on the table as says, make it two.
You fight your way to the bar and order two more double scotches. Pressing your face into your hands you try and get yourself under control. The doctor brings the medicine as you slide you hands down your red face, stretching your eye lids and your cheeks. Reaching for the drinks and leaving the change a young brunette dressed in a white spaghetti strap tank top and black dress slacks catches your eye from the far side of the bar. She smiles. She smiles immediately and effortlessly. She smiles a smile that says she fell for it too, whatever it may have been, a life with a purpose, a promise that was broken, a belief that was shattered, a God, a boyfriend, something that was taken. A sadly beautiful smile that makes you want to weep, but instead you are smiling helplessly back across the bar. You haven’t smiled so defenselessly in months, years, maybe ever. She drops her head closer to her drink and her brown hair falls around her ears and neck. You grab the two drinks and make your way back to the booth were Johnny is waiting.
That brunette was giving you the eye wasn’t she, he asks.
I don’t know about all that, you say, your stupid smile still pasted on your face.
Come on now. Go talk to her.
Not tonight, you say lighting another cigarette.
Syd I’m worried about you. You look like shit man. I don’t want to loose you.
Exhaling you say, I don’t want to loose me either. I’m gonna be ok John Boy, you’re a good friend. I mean that.
He shrugs and puffs on his cheap cigar.
You still writing, he asks.
Everyday.
About her?
Everyday.
No.
Well haven’t you even been with someone since…?
No.
Not even to a massage parlor or_
No I haven’t Johnny. Just drop it.
Syd, I just worry_
Don’t. I’m fine.
He exhales a thick stream of blueish white smoke from his cheap cigar, leans back in the hardwood booth and looks around. The Green Room is crowded for a Tuesday night. Shitty pop and hip hop pour from the juke as everyone around you laughs and drinks and smokes. You stare John Boy in the eye until he looks away.
Aren’t you gonna eat your burger, he asks.
I can’t eat that shit. It’ll make me sick. I told you not to order me anything.
You light a cigarette and tap your matches on the heavily marked table in an effort to kill the awkwardness the silence between you has created. You know why he has asked you here, and you can tell by the way he nervously taps the ash from his putrid cigar that he is only trying to find the words to breach the subject again.
Look Syd, I’m not going to pretend to know what you’re going through.
Then don’t.
And I know you’re hurting, but you’ve got to snap out of this.
He looks you in the eye trying to read your response. This time you look away and dig a couple of Xanax from your frayed jeans.
Aren’t you gonna say anything?
Want a football?
I’m fucking serious here Syd. I’m trying to talk to you. You should take it easy with that shit anyway. You’ve been hitting the bottle pretty hard tonight.
That’s one of the advantages of being a drunk, you can handle your pills with your booze, you say, washing the little blue footballs down with the last sip of Dewars.
You’re not a drunk
You choke on the last bit of scotch lingering in your throat as you raise a hand to your mouth and stifle the laugh.
I hold no illusions about that, you say.
That’s part of your fucking problem. When did you develop such a low opinion of yourself? It’s like you’ve digressed back to some Catcher in the Rye phase.
Are you trying to make me feel better, you ask. Cause its working.
Fuck you. I’m trying to get you to wake up before it’s too late. Lara’s been gone now, what, four, five months?
Four months, two weeks and three days, you say.
That’s exactly what I’m talking about. You’ve got to let this go. It wasn’t your fault. She was a stubborn fuck just like you.
You slam your half smoked cigarette into the black plastic ashtray hard enough to shoot sparks in all directions.
Where the fuck do you get off talking to me like this? When Tammy kicked your sorry ass out, did I ever give you shit about it? No. I gave you a place to stay and listened to your bullshit. When I didn’t see you for months at a time, did I ever ask you for where you had been? And that whole fucking time you were a smack head, did I ever point my finger at you? No. Everyone else did, but I didn’t. I stood up for you and told everyone you knew what you were doing.
I just want to help Syd.
Maybe I don’t want your fucking help. Maybe I don’t want anyone’s fucking help.
You exhale heavily and try to explain yourself.
I watched her do it. I watched her kill herself everyday. I caught her puking up breakfast, lunch and dinner. I watched her waste away to eighty-eight pounds. I watched her yellow tears roll down her cheeks and held her close instead of helping her, talking to her about it. We drank and smoked and snorted and ignored it. I let her do it. Now you fucking tell me John Boy, exactly how long does it take to get over that? Exactly how many shots of whiskey and lines of coke does it take to make the regret go away, because I’m terribly fucking interested to know when I can sleep through the night without dreaming of her sunken face begging me to help her.
She wouldn’t want you to kill yourself too, he says. Christ Syd, you didn’t even recognize me the other night.
You begin to feel the familiar sting in the corners of your eyes and turn ninety degrees in the booth. Quietly you say to the crowds of people, fuck you. What would you know about us anyway? I’ve barely heard from you until the funeral. Now you want me to what? Pour my heart out to you? Maybe cry in front of all these people?
I’m still your friend Sydie.
You rub your tired eyes and say, I need a fucking drink.
He tosses a twenty on the table as says, make it two.
You fight your way to the bar and order two more double scotches. Pressing your face into your hands you try and get yourself under control. The doctor brings the medicine as you slide you hands down your red face, stretching your eye lids and your cheeks. Reaching for the drinks and leaving the change a young brunette dressed in a white spaghetti strap tank top and black dress slacks catches your eye from the far side of the bar. She smiles. She smiles immediately and effortlessly. She smiles a smile that says she fell for it too, whatever it may have been, a life with a purpose, a promise that was broken, a belief that was shattered, a God, a boyfriend, something that was taken. A sadly beautiful smile that makes you want to weep, but instead you are smiling helplessly back across the bar. You haven’t smiled so defenselessly in months, years, maybe ever. She drops her head closer to her drink and her brown hair falls around her ears and neck. You grab the two drinks and make your way back to the booth were Johnny is waiting.
That brunette was giving you the eye wasn’t she, he asks.
I don’t know about all that, you say, your stupid smile still pasted on your face.
Come on now. Go talk to her.
Not tonight, you say lighting another cigarette.
Syd I’m worried about you. You look like shit man. I don’t want to loose you.
Exhaling you say, I don’t want to loose me either. I’m gonna be ok John Boy, you’re a good friend. I mean that.
He shrugs and puffs on his cheap cigar.
You still writing, he asks.
Everyday.
About her?
Everyday.
