Snowflakes in May

“I’ll burn this fucking house down. I don’t give a fuck.”
“Shit,” I think as I stand, walk to the door and make my way to Michael’s room. “What the Hell is wrong this time.” I walk down the hallway, still listening to the rant:
“I don’t need this bed. I don’t need shit.” I can’t really blame Michael for this behavior, for it is something that every boy must go through before he becomes a man. You see, Michael is in love; unfortunately, he is in love with a girl that he has scarcely spoken to. Sure, they’re in the same classes, and sure, they occasionally converse over their work, but nothing more. He does not know her favorite color, her favorite food. He has no idea of her personal life or any clue as to what she has come from or where she wishes to go. He knows nothing, yet he has these fucking fits almost daily, bitching about how she never notices him or never asks him to hang out. “Just ask her dude,” I say to him, but he doesn’t listen. Every time he talks to her, he talks about pointless things such as ridding the world of Hannah Montana and therefore the herds of fifteen-year-old whores just waiting to send a respectable adult to a life in which he becomes a piece of meat.
​I get to the room and try to open the door, but it is jammed. I push again, still nothing. “Who are you? Don’t come in here.” Screams Michael from inside. “I’ll fucking kill you.”
“Dude, it’s Jack. Calm the hell down.” I hear the sound of something being pushed away from the door.
“Okay, come in.” he says. I open the door and walk through. The room has been destroyed: in the corner, the bed is overturned and the sheets are messily draped over the desk lamp. A printer has been tossed out the window, except the window is closed and now a scattered pile of glass nests a broken heap of plastic, all spackled by an explosion of ink. The carpet is pulled up, and it seems to have been set on fire in numerous places; there are black spots scattered about the floor as well as a strong smell of Axe body spray and matches. He stands in the center of all this, naked except for a pair socks on his hands, an empty bottle of Jack Daniels hanging from his mouth, and, perhaps most disturbing, a picture of Sara taped to his dick.
“What the fuck is this man?” I say to him in a calm but firm tone. “You can’t keep doing this shit.” He stares at me for a second, then looks at the floor. His breaths are heavy, each one becoming more and more audible, each one becoming more and more desperate.
“Shut up,” he retorts violently, saliva spilling from his mouth. He looks at me again, his eyes red with anger; wait, no—his eyes... they’re red with sadness. Tears trickle from the corners and seem to float to the ground forming puddles, like snowflakes in May. “You shut the fuck up now.” The bottle, which he had moved to the side of his mouth to talk, now fell to the ground and produced a dull thud. In an instant, he too was on the ground, curled up and still crying, and now, he was sucking his thumb.
“Dude, just talk to her. She’s not gonna be that creeped out.”
“I’m fucking scared man. She came to class late yesterday just so she wouldn’t have to talk to me.”
“That’s stupid. Did you even ask her about it?” He does this kind of shit a lot, thinking everything is about him. Every day, it gets weirder. Last week he freaked out because we saw her at the store with a guy. He noticed them from a distance and quickly left, throwing his groceries onto a shelf. I didn’t quite know what to make of it, so I followed slowly behind. In the parking lot, he was chased down and confronted by the store manager. He then went into a sort of mini-fit, turning red in the face with heavy breathing. The manager made him go back inside and put the abandoned items back on the shelves, and as luck would have it, Sara saw him:
“Michael, what’s up? What did you do?” The store manager was still with us making sure we did as we were supposed to. He didn’t know what to say, so, in a gangster-like tone, he said:
“I’z gonna rob this bitch.”
“Oh,” she said, and a look of disinterest spread across her face. She looked around the store, “I gotta get some cough syrup.”
“Oh that’s cool. I love cough syrup. Makes ya trip.”
She laughed nervously, “Oh. That’s nice.” She then walked towards the register and didn’t look back, even as Michael babbled something at her.
“It’ll be okay man.” I said as he began to cry. “Let’s get out of here.” That night he was up until 4 a.m. drinking cough medicine and working on a poem. I woke at 4 to the sound of what I thought was a flood in the basement. Getting up, I realized the sound was coming from the bathroom. I opened the door and Michael was standing there in his underwear holding a cup half full of toilet water. “What the fuck are you doing?” I asked him.
“Dude. I peed. Then I flushed. And it filled up for no reason. And I didn’t know what else to do. So I’m cupping the pee water into the sink.”
“Into the sink where I brush my teeth. Thanks.”
“I’m sorry. I’m trippin’ balls man. I feel like I’m saving the Titanic or something. It’s impulse. I’m just a hero like that.”
​As you can tell, most of the time he is quite funny about things. You shouldn’t drink 4 bottles of cough syrup at once, but I didn’t stop him. Cough syrup makes him happy, makes me laugh. There’s nothing wrong with laughter. Tonight, however, is a different story.
“Will you please put some pants on?” I ask as politely as possible.
“Will you please get me some more Valium?”
“You don’t need more Valium. Just go to sleep.”
“Don’t tell me what to do. Give me my fucking pills.” He’s been so fucked up on pills lately he’s starting to think he actually has a prescription for them. Unfortunately, he buys them off a homeless guy that gets them through a Veteran’s Hospital. Over the past couple of weeks, he has spent all his savings on pills and liquor. Now he’s out of pills and wants to trade the man alcohol for more. I don’t see a problem in this; both men were getting the effect they desired. With that train of thought, I drive him to the alley where the man typically hangs out. It is a narrow path in the middle of Pittsburgh that seems to slice the city in half. It goes on endlessly, winding in and out of view of the public eye, and somewhere right in the middle is a man that has a bottle of pills that Michael is all but dying for. “Chester,” he cries out. “Chester, I need ya man.”
B​Seconds later, Chester appears from behind a barricade of dumpsters. He is tall, but seems to be fragile. One of his eyes is shut, as behind it there is no eyeball. When it does flip open, it looks a lot like a Venus fly trap searching for an insect to pounce upon. He wears camouflage cut-offs and a dirty white tank-top that is covered in a mixture of dirt, sweat, and blood. As he walks, he turns and tosses an empty bottle of Vladimir into the dumpster. On turning back he stumbles a bit, and finally speaks, “Ay dayre Mikey. Whatcani Do ya for?”
“Hey man I need more Valium. Hook me up.”
“Got money?”
“I got a half bottle of Jack, a little rum, some vodka, and a few beers. What can you give me for that?”
“For muh bes customer, that’ll get ya tha bottle.” A crooked smile spread across his face as Michael pulled the alcohol from his backpack. “Lemme see thatruuum.” He reached out and grabbed the rum from Michael’s outstretched hand. He sunk his teeth deep into the cork, and in a violent turn of the head, ripped it from the bottle, and, in doing so, ripped out his incisor. At first, the blood dripped heavily from Chester’s mouth, but in a few seconds it slowed down to the point where he was able to chug down the remainder of the bottle of rum.
“Give me my pills Chester.” Michael half-whispered to him. Chester dropped the empty bottle to the ground and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a prescription canister filled with Valium, took off the cap and grabbed 5 or 6 pills from the top, then, reluctantly handed the bottle to Michael.
​Minutes later, I found myself in quite a predicament. Since we left the alley, Michael had consumed a great deal of Valium. On the car ride home, he popped a couple and laid back in his seat until we got to the gas station. There, he stepped out of the car and held up for a few clumsy steps before falling flat on his face. It is my diagnosis that he has broken his nose and maybe his cheek bone, but he says he’s fine. He has a prescription after all, and a serious intent to do it in. He got back into the car, popped another pill, and laid back again, this time folding the seat down until only his forehead could be seen from the window. I got some smokes and a Snapple and slowly walked back outside.
​ BWhen I tried to open the door it was locked. Looking over at Michael lying in the passenger seat, I realized he had nodded off. I yelled out his name, in short bursts of sound at first, then in slightly longer squeals that I figure would bring a bear out of hibernation; in this situation however, they were useless. To get a better vantage point, I walked to the other side of the car.
When I looked closer, I realized this was more serious than I had anticipated. Michael laid there, his mouth wide open, his eyes in a death-like stare, as if he had just witnessed his parents having sex. At first, this was a scary sight—I thought for sure that he was dead. A millisecond into my panic, I was reassured by sudden hints of life flagged by movement in the eye and strange tongue-circles that got slightly more precise with each rotation. It seemed like he was slowly coming back to earth, and in that, realizing how stupid he looked doing tongue-circles. After pulling his tongue back into his mouth and offering a brief scowl, he unlocked the door and shouted:
“What the fuck are you doing man? Get in the fucking car. We don't have all fffuckin'dayyyy” His words were very wobbly, and by the end of the rant, his shout was reduced to a shimmer of high-pitched squealing that led to a short cough, then, silence. Back to the staring... Eager to put this awkward situation behind me, I got into the car and drove home.
We arrived back at the house just as the sun opened his eyes and brought life into the world once more. It had been a long night for both of us-- Michael with his self-destructive antics-- and me driving him around, being an enabler. And yes, I know, that sounds awful to say. But it's the truth.
I drive him around to pick up drugs. I lend him money when he needs it. I never tell him when it's too much; I only flash a grin and spit out a quick chuckle to move the situation along. Speaking from his point-of-view however, I know he's never going to listen to me. He's addicted to this lifestyle. He's gonna do what he wants to do when he wants to do it. There's nothing I could do about it. There's nothing anybody could do about it. Might as well just sit back and watch.
We've been home for six hours now; Michael has been locked in his room for almost the entire time. He says he's working on his poem some more and that if he keeps getting distracted Sara will never return his love. Once in a while he comes out and walks to the kitchen. I can always predict this; his footsteps are foretold by the dragging of a chest of drawers from in front of the door and a low rambling of something that I can't quite make out. These signs have just taken place, and now he's dragging himself to the kitchen. My plan was to ignore him again; these plans changed after a long, loud, spontaneous crashing sound echoed through the house.
"Michael, what are you doing now?" I yell as I leap up and speed-walk to the kitchen.
"Nothing, just stay the Hell out!" he replied just before I burst through the swinging door. My attitude went from worried to hysterical as I looked at Michael laying on the ground tangled in a heap of pots and pans that, moments before, were hanging above the stove. They seemed to have beaten him up pretty badly as small amounts of blood scurried out of tiny slices on his face and arms. He seemed okay, so I continued my laughter.
"What the fuck is this man?" I managed to say between short bursts, "Having trouble with the Ramen Noodles again?"
(He usually burns the pot)
"Get this shit off me," he replied with a brief, confused scowl, "I need a pan for eggs." I picked up a few of the pots from his body, then grabbed his hand and pulled him up sending the rest smashing onto the ground. He looked around the floor for a second and picked up the pan that he wanted.
"Just clean up the rest when you're finished," I said to him as I walked back through the door."
"I sent her my poem." In an instant, I was back in the kitchen in a bit of shock. Usually, Michael was afraid to send her his work. He was always too afraid of what she might say or think. Instead, they piled up on the flash drive that was always poking out of small change pocket on his jeans. No matter how fucked up he was, he always managed to hang on to his flash drive.
"You finally sent her something man? That's sweet." I said with a smile on my face. I really was proud of him. Usually he's much too worried about what people, let alone Sara, will think. Even I, his roommate and best friend of six years, have only read a few of his works. And there were a lot. "Which one? The new one?"
"All of them."
"What?"
"I sent her all of them. She won't be able to resist me." Since the whole cough medicine incident, Michael hadn't seen or talked Sara. He only has her e-mail because they had class together. I'm pretty sure she would never date him for very long considering his love of pills and hard liquor as she already thought he was a weirdo. This was going to kill all chances.
"You sent her all of them; like, the whole flash drive?"
"Like, the whole 'Sara' folder."
"How many?"
"Forty, fifty poems maybe. And a few short stories." He seemed completely calm and confident that his work would win her over. I'm not sure if he thinks it's flattering to send that much love poetry and weird stories to a girl whom you barely know, but it seems very creepy to me.
"Oh Christ." I replied. This wasn't going to be good at all.
Over the next four days, Michael's strange, newfound confidence continued, so much so that he looked up Sara's number and called her every night. The fact that she never answered should have given him the hint that she wasn't interested but he kept calling, each time leaving an even cockier, creepier voicemail. I'm not sure if this attitude was due to an extremely heavy weight being lifted from his chest when he sent the e-mail (and the 53 word documents attached to it), or if it was because of the fact he had crushed half-a-bottle of Valium in 4 days, but either way it was better than him running around naked and miserable with pictures taped to his dick.
When I went to sleep on that fourth day, Michael was perfectly happy; he lay on the couch as messed up as ever on his pills watching Monday Night Football, the Giants and the Cowboys, and having a few drinks. He does this every Monday, so I felt safe leaving him alone with his poisons. With a sloppy smile, he bid me goodnight; with a pat on the head, I mumbled "You too man," and walked up to my room.
Unable to fall asleep, I lay in my bed staring at the ceiling for an hour and a half. About halfway through that, I heard Michael make his way to his room. He was whistling some half-assed tune as he walked but it made me smile to know that he was in a good mood. I fell asleep with that smile still etched on my face hoping that the overdramatic nighttime rants were finally over for good.
BANG! My eyes burst open as if I'd been punched hard in the gut and my body was glazed over with sweat like morning dew on grass. I was somewhat disoriented, but my instincts told me to go to Michael's room. I got up in a slow stupor and walked to the door at first, but soon found myself running to Michael's door and knocking a few times before ripping it open and rushing in.
As I entered, an empty vodka bottle bounced off my foot and slid across the carpet before crashing to a halt at the foot of Michael's bed. The new printer was on the ground, only this time it was in tact with some pages printed out. The computer monitor was also on the ground, also in tact, except the power chords were ripped out of the wall and sliced in half. The mattress was overturned and the sheets, I believe, were covered in piss. There was profanity and random scribbles etched into the wall. It's as if Michael didn't know what to do with himself so he did something productive then something destructive. But where was he?
I took another step towards the bed when my foot was met with a thick, disgusting liquid that on looking down, I figured out was blood. A chill burst over my body and quickly multiplies as I followed the blood to the overturned mattress. Shaking like an alcoholic in need of a beverage, I lifted it. Michael lay there, dead in a tuxedo with a bullet hole in his head. His eyes were wide open, just like during the drug-induced rants he typically went on. His mouth was closed except in the corner where thick, frothy saliva protruded in the form of small bubbles. One hand held a revolver; the other, Michael's now empty Valium bottle. I knelt down and put my face on his chest. I didn't cry though. It was one of those situations in which crying just isn't enough. I tried hard to cry, but all that happened were strange, bird-like screeches and broken blood vessels in both my eyes. He was happy last night, perfectly happy. What had happened?
After a few minutes of sobbing Hell during which my knees and face became encrusted with Michael's blood, I stood, picked him up, and put him on the bed. With trembling knees, I wobbled to the door with the intent of finding the phone. I guessed it was my job to inform somebody about this. Just as I picked it up and started to dial, I remembered the papers in the printer.
I rushed back in and knelt down next to the printer, grabbing frantically at the papers. There were four pages: one, a suicide note; the others, the subjects of the suicide note. The second page, behind Michael's note, was a return email from Sara. It stated that she wanted absolutely nothing to do with Michael and if he continued to send her things, there would be consequences.
Next, a final letter to Sara telling her it wasn't her fault that he'd done what he'd done; he was caught up in a state of madness, misery, and eventually, mayhem. That the drugs and alcohol had overtaken him and controlled his every emotion, put him over the edge. He apologized for any inconvenience he may have caused her.
The next page was a letter to me. He apologized, once more, for the way he'd acted over Sara. He then thanked me for always being there and trying to make his life a little better. He thanked me for driving him and lending him money. He basically thanked me for killing him. He vowed, at the end of the letter, to pay me back:
"All the great writers make all their money after they die. Make sure my collection gets out and I promise you'll make a fortune."
The last page was folded, in an envelope, and post-marked two days prior. I opened it, and on reading, realized just how much Michael had scared Sara. It was a restraining order. Thinking back, she was probably right in getting it. He was rather ridiculously mad for her. He sent her fifty poems for fucks sake. Well, she didn't have to worry now. And now, things made some sense to me.
During Michael's extemporaneous new happiness and confidence, he had been doing a lot more pills than usual. Also, somewhat uncharacteristically, he had been mixing the pills with liquor. He usually did one substance at a time and mixing them was always a bit too much. I was sad that Michael was gone, but what's worse, I could have done a lot more to prevent it. I knew what drugs and liquor and crime did to people. I watched him break down and hit rock bottom at least a few times a week. Yet, I did whatever he asked me to. He probably wouldn't have changed if I'd said anything, but he might have. I just didn't want to make things any worse than they were. I just wanted him to be happy. He was my best friend, and maybe I could have saved him. I guess the saddest part is that I didn't even try.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]