Gratitude

 

“How many pills?” I asked him. All I heard

was his faltering breath, a faint mumble, more

breathing, then: “I just . . . wanted . . .” in a blurred,

beaten voice. “Jake,” I said. “Three? Four?

How many pills?” He yawned, then with a strange

detachment said, “All of ’em . . . I just . . . wanted . . .

to say . . . you’re my . . . friend . . . this . . . doesn’t change . . .

anything . . . so . . . well . . . goodbye. . . .” I’m still haunted

by this call, the clock still stopped at three

a.m., my frantic refusal to let

him hang up: “No,” I said, “not goodbye, we

aren’t through yet. Where are you?” I had to get

him, I didn’t know how. “Jake — where are you?”

I asked, again and again. “. . . Sleepy . . . so . . .

sleepy . . . ,” he muttered, then, “I see a blue . . .

sign . . . MiniMart . . .” As fast as I could go,

screeching down the dark and lifeless streets, I

tore through town, found him in his mother’s car,

nodding out, heavy-lidded eyes rolled high

into his head, a dozen empty beer

cans, an empty bottle of Excedrin

Extra Strength. I yanked him out, made him walk,

hauled his ass to the hospital. Saved him.

He thanked me once, but now we hardly ever talk.

 

 

© Michael Fleming

Brattleboro, Vermont

November 2010

 

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