Then and Now

Then:

“Well, Happy Birthday bro. Salute.” You hold up your mini-glass of saki. I follow suit.

“Salute.”

We’re dressed to kill. I’m in that black Prada suit I bought when we went to Vegas last fall, a purple Versace shirt, and black Kenneth Cole shoes. You’re wearing strictly Armani. We have this knack of finding something to celebrate every single night, you see, there’s always an excuse to go out and party. However, tonight is particularly special as it’s my 23rd birthday. It’s a special night and it’s a great excuse to blow some cash on food, drink, bitches, and blow. So here we are at Kagami…or, Kazahutisi, I forget the name but it’s the best sushi joint in town.

Now:

The last thing I ever expected was to receive that phone call from you telling me you were sick. It was a snowy night in December, close to Christmas. Your voice sounded so faint. Like you were on speaker and our conversation, in turn, was on speaker. You had moved to Chicago. As you told me about your declining health all I could think about was how your voice had to travel hundreds and hundreds of miles through freezing cable to finally reach me. Like a washing machine on spin, I kept dwelling on some bullshit idea that your voice, I swear, should have been even fainter than it already was. That it was a scientific miracle, courtesy of Alexander Graham Bell, that you and I were even able to carry this conversation in the first place. We’ve come a long ways, you and I, from our days as kids when we’d tie two Dixie cups together with string.

Then:

The club is popping. You and I meet up with the rest of our boys near the VIP entrance. Of course, you know the doorman and the bouncers and the owner, fuck, you know everyone in town! We walk past the 8-mile line stretching clear to China. We walk past the velvet rope and the beefy motherfucker with the clipboard. In this moment, I’m Henry Hill and suddenly it’s 1964, and I don’t have to wait in any fucking lines.

We work our way single file through the kitchen and the back storage room and the coat- room until we finally approach the dance floor: we’re greeted by lights and tribal beats and irregular record scratching and a sweaty sea of attractive girls and roided out guidos.

Now:

I caught the red eye to Chicago to come and see you for the last time. Tuned out, jacked into my I-pod, I watched the snow relentlessly fall through the tiny window. I thought about our lives and our adventures and the funny fucked up things you used to say that I’d adopt as my own and proudly use when you weren’t around. I thought about your folks and how annoyed they’d get when we’d stay up late playing with our G.I Joe’s when we were kids, or when we’d steal your dad’s cokes from the fridge or when we’d sneak out at night and smoke weed in that field by our neighborhood. I thought about the “fort” we built one summer with plywood we stole from a building site, and how we had our friend Jay(who was 18) buy us porn so we could hang pictures up of naked whores on the walls. I thought about scout trips when you, me, and Matt would fuck with the other kids. That 4-hour flight I think I sifted through a truckload of memories desperately searching for that one defining moment where I finally understood. That one scene in this comedic tragedy of ours where your character gave that pivotal soliloquy that defined you wholly, “Friends, Roman, Countrymen….”

Or something like that.

Then:

After about 20 shots of Tequila between the two of us, and a hilarious night of acting like hooligans, we stumble out of the club. We prop each other up like drunken buddies from a Hollywood 50’s musical, Deano and Frank. Of course, we don’t know where the fuck we parked and we’re too stupid to convince the other we shouldn’t drive, so we aimlessly walk through the empty streets like lost sheep. We turn the corner at 5th and duck into a dark alley - I swear it’s a shortcut. We stop for a second so you can take a piss as I sit on a crate talking about some bitch whose number I got and whom I probably could have fucked if I didn’t have to take your ass home tonight.

I ramble on and on and then WHAM I get knocked on my ass by some fucking punk with a bat. As I'm passing out I can't help but chuckle. Between the stars, I see you (three of you actually) tackle this piece of shit...your dick's hanging out because your pants and boxers are still wrapped around your ankles.

When I regain consciousness you tell me we need to get the fuck out of here. You say you think you might have seriously injured this dude. I weakly thank you as I get up and trip over a garbage can, disoriented. On the ground I see a 16-year old kid who was prepared to fucking kill me so he could steal my wallet. His face looks like something you’d see in an episode of E.R. but a whole lot messier. I start stomping on his face, sobbing with anger and rage, adrenalin and pain.

"Hey, take it easy! Yo, it's over. Let's get the fuck out of here, now" You say as you pull me away. I kick him in the ribs one last time and spit on him, a sticky wad of saliva, teeth, and blood.

Now:

It was raining in Chicago that night. Your room stank vaguely of piss and old vomit. Dead quiet. The only sound was your heart, as it told the machine by your bed it was still awake, and also an occasional cough or two; and of course, the rain. Always the rain.

Fuck, what happened to you? You looked like you weighed a hundred pounds. I remember you used to joke that you always had a fat face and that’s the reason you couldn’t model. In a sick twist of fate, your face was thinner than I could have ever imagined. Your arms seemed to be the size of garden hose with 20 needles connected to wires protruding out like you were some fucking cyborg.

“Hey gorgeous.”

“Hey."

Silence.

"How you feeling?"

"Fucking peachy." You wouldn't look at me. You just blankly stared out the window.

Silence.

"Hey...I brought you something.” I said as I handed you a small package wrapped in newspaper I had tucked away in my black pea coat.

“Can you open it for me? Heh, I just ran the NY marathon, I’m kinda tired.”

Holding my tears back, trying to look strong, I sat on your bed and opened the package. Nestled inside, wrapped in tissue, was a 3-inch black plastic figure. “Don’t say I never did anything for you, bitch” I weakly said with an even weaker smile.

You cradled the figure in your garden-hose arms like a newborn. You smiled then coughed then laughed then coughed again. “Ohhh shit dude, Snake eyes. I was always jealous you owned this. God, I never thought you'd ever part with... thanks, but I couldn't...."

"Don't worry about it bro'. I want you to keep it."

Silence, but not so uncomfortable.

With a raspy breath you went on to say: "Hey, you remember that summer we trained to become ninjas?"

I silently nodded. Thunder broke somewhere far off in the distance, NYC maybe. You and I just sat in silence savoring this final moment, listening to the rhythmic, tribal beat of the rain.