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Short Story (Untitled), by ajdowd
Kalamazoo, MI US

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Short Story (Untitled)

Adam Dowdle
1-27-2013
My friend eats a lot of pills, if he kept them in a pez dispenser it might not look like such a problem, but then I suppose there would be that certain sick sense of humor behind it that would make it seem fine. How do address a problem like this? When he's confronted he uses, when hes nervous, sick, tired, stressed, high, not high enough, he's always using. If I take them, he'll just get more, it doesn't make a difference, they dont disappear they just get consumed, then a new collection shows up.
There's a mumbled string of words echoing from the living room of the home I'm visiting; it's dark with the dusty shades drawn tightly shut, the only light is that eerie blue glow from the television showing images of the jungle on a show entitled I Shouldn't Be Alive. I think about how interesting that actually is while staring at my friend and his heaving chest on the couch, slowly dying. I try to think of some interesting conversation topic to bring up, but I'm so torn whether or not to address this all right now. Of course this isn't this right time for it, say something, say anything I tell myself.
Do you think you could survive something like this? I mean do you think your will is strong enough to live through a situation that you have no business living through?
He struggles to comprehend what it is I'm talking about, and put it all together, he moves slowly to a sitting and upright position and I hear the pill bottles rattle and fall off the table onto the stained once white carpeted floor.
I guess I just wouldnt go into the jungle, ya know? I'm hungry anyway, can I borrow some money for food?
Scattered thoughts, favors, this has become more of a regular thing than sunrise. Things have been getting worse lately. Today, I take him to get some groceries, because I know better than to just give him money and assume he will buy food.
That will be $45.39, says the clerk standing behind the desk. She looks run-down, and a lot less excited to be at work than the average Wal-Mart employee. This is when things go down hill.
This is bullshit! he shouts while slurring his words and I stand idly by hoping he finds a nice calm center. It's food, how the fuck..! You scanned the ham twice, you scanned it twice!
I try to jump in with some sort of clever antic dote but instead I simply hand the cashier two twenties a five and a one. I tell her that Im sorry under my breath, as we exchange glances that seem to say to each other, my friend sucks, my job sucks. I think we reached an understanding.
I get him back to his home and turn him loose setting the groceries down in the kitchen I ask him if there's anything else he needs, what his plans are, small-talk as I walk towards the door. Any more of this taste of depressing life and I might start swallowing the pills along with him.
I close the door tightly behind me and head out into the cold air that comes from that week or two somewhere between autumn and winter. I never hear anything thank you, goodbye, take care, or even a playful don't let the door hit your ass on the way out. No respect, I feel like Rodney Dangerfield, I feel like smashing all his pills into the floor and vacuuming them away forever, I feel small, I think I need to commit him, he needs help, and I need help to do it.
I reach for my phone while my computer loads up at the nearest coffee shop to his home. It's only about seven minutes away by bike. I slide my tattered backpack underneath the chair Im sitting on and begin flipping through the contacts list in my phone. Angie, Brian, Chris, etc. about eight more people that know my friends problem. We get into discussion and agree that the only solution is what I feared the most and told myself repeatedly I didn't want to get so drastic; intervention it is. However, there is still one loose end I cannot seem to tie up- his ex-girlfriend Stephanie.
She has been going to school in a different city for the last few years; she was before there really was a problem and then split when she realized that she couldn't be of any help to him. He was going to ruin his life, but not hers. She has a good will, a good head on her shoulders and a good heart; she just isnt any good at picking up her damn phone. It isn't until the next day that she returns my calls, which in all reality is not a long time, but in this age of cell phones, call forwarding, texting, voicemail, etc. we dont have time to wait and waiting until tomorrow to return the call must mean that you don't care.
I tell her how bad things have gotten with him and I hear that long outward sigh of disappointment from her end of the phone.
Well what are your plans? Are you talking about having an intervention? She takes the words right from my mouth, and thank goodness because it seems to make me very uncomfortable to say it. I suppose it makes me really appreciate how very real the situation is.
So what do you think? Will you do it, I know that it's a little drive to get down here, but I'd really appreciate it, he's going to die if he keeps this all up.
I do my best not to make it a video conference and get to knees and begin crying and pleading, like a boy who lost his dog the day before. She catches wind of how much this means to me and how much my friend still means to me; she agrees to make the drive back to town and agrees to help.
I thank her and hang up. I stare down at the list of names of scribbled in blue ink on a white piece of printer paper. I begin to grow tired though its only about eight oclock p.m. The days grow shorter this time of year and Ive been on my feet what feels like all week. Two more days to go, then he will have to hear it out finally. Don't get me wrong there has been plenty of times that Ive hinted at the notion he has a problem, or at least that it is becoming a problem, but everyone knows that you can make somebody listen to what you have to say no matter how much you'd like; unless it's an intervention.
I feel like the mad scientist deviously rubbing my hands together while lighting cracks in the sky behind me through the stone lab window. I have good intentions, dont I? I think I'm doing what's best, so what if he becomes embarrassed; it's time.
The week reaches Saturday, there arent many leaves left to fall, but a bomb is getting ready to drop. Everyone has met at my apartment. It's small, not cozy like they may say in Home and Garden magazine, but small. It's a one bedroom, not a studio, renting a studio apartment makes me feel like a date rapist anytime a girl decides to come over. It's in an old house and we spiral down the stairs onto the front stone porch. I stop everyone on more time and make them remember.
I just want to thank everyone once again, this really means a lot. I know most of you havent spoke to him in quite a while but he needs us, whether or not he wants to admit it to us or himself, he does. Im going in first to bullshit with him and get the pills off of the table in front of him, just wait two minutes or until his voice becomes elevated. I look directly at Stephanie. His temper has been getting progressively worse too, I know this is going to be hard, especially for you, thank you.
The moment of truth. No guts no glory. Is this the best I can do to psych myself up for something like this? Cliché phrases and sayings, fuck that, hows this, grow a pair and knock on the door. No answer, he must be passed out again. Well that's fine I'll be able to dump out all pills before he wakes up. About two months ago I stole his door key for a few hours while he was asleep to have a copy made. Good thing too, that is if hes O.D.ing right now. Shut up. Dont even think that way, not now, not when youre this close. So why this funny feeling in my gut?
I open the door and step inside. The apartment's filthy as ever, even worse than the two days prior when I was here. Barely any of the food is put away from the grocery store adventure the other day. Almost fifty dollars wasted. Why do I bother sometimes I wonder, maybe he'd be better to just waste away, teach himself the ultimate lesson I suppose. I kick wrappers, plastic cups, and of course those off-orange-half-see through pill bottles that have taken him over.
He looks like a pill right now motionless on the couch, his skin pale, I sniff the air, it smells like vomit in here&
No, no, you son of a bitch! I roll him over and sure enough my darkest fear has come true. Hes covered in his own stomach acids, and pill remnants. The others walk in just in time to see me screaming and smacking his face hoping consciousness miraculously catches back up with him.
Call an ambulance, call the fucking ambulance, now!
The rest of them stay motionless, a few of them crying, a few stuck in shock, bug eyed, and turned as pale as he is.

The ambulance arrives, but it's too late. I was too late. They announce him D.O.A., more medical terms, all I can think about is why did this take me so long. You knew how bad things were, and now he's dead. What if it were that couple of seconds at the front door when I thought to myself, sometimes I hope he's dead, you killed him, I tell myself. Of course I know this isn't true, but for some reason it's better to take the blame off of him. I only wish I could have saved him. They roll him out on the stretcher, and all I can think is OxyContin, Vicodin, Percocet, Xanex, the list goes on and on. A room full of faces that wanted to help give someone a new life, now we all look dead, they look as if they feel as dead as I do too. I follow them to the hospital and make that dreaded call to his parents. I'm sorry I couldnt save him I say to them. Im sorry your son is dead. Shut up I tell myself, you let your friend die, I hate you, and the wheel spins round and round. I look at the pill bottle I swiped from his apartment and wonder why not?

Description: This is a fairly dark fiction story about addiction, loss, and the all consuming appetite for escape.

Photo Posted: Jan 27,2013 Photo Viewed: 447

Pages(1): [1]

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