Dear Nobody (10 page)

Dear Nobody,

I haven't talked to Geoff, my stupid ex-boyfriend, in like two weeks and I'm glad. I'm much better off without him. But right now I've got a hickey on my neck—and I'm not sure who it's from—and I don't care, either! I did 69 with Sam, who I really like, but he's not my boyfriend—we really only talk when we're drunk. His friend Pete and I make out, too. I really like Sam, but I'm loud and obnoxious when I'm drunk and he's very withdrawn—kinda quiet. Sometimes his responses to what I say feel fake, or like, heartless and thoughtless; I dunno, maybe he just doesn't know what to say. He's social, but has anti-social habits. I heard him say he doesn't care about anyone but himself.

FUCK THAT—I want to change that so bad!

I really like him—but there's no way I'm going out with him and then have him hating and lying about me like everyone else. He's too special.

Dear Nobody,

Hooray! Hooray! I got Geoff to forgive me! He called, and we talked a while—him being solemn, and I being the one doing most of the talking. I had no idea that our argument had hurt him THAT much—it was almost touching. Then he said shit, like, how he could never forgive me for what I had said, that it was completely over for us two forever. He said he'd never been so angry in his life—and it kind of made me glad (in a sick kind of way)—that I'd meant enough to him to hurt him so badly. But then when he started saying all that “It's-definitely-over-bullshit” I began to panic. I apologized. I expressed my shame and humility and owned-up to the destruction of our relationship.

He was a tough cookie about it, but I broke out with some of my best shit, although I was feeling a shade Pinocchio. I'm glad it was over the phone, because I had a big smile on my face for some of it. I'm not sure why; maybe because it struck me odd to hear myself saying these things—almost begging his forgiveness.

After maybe an hour of such shit, he said he had to go.

I said for him to at least think over what I had said, that I really did not mean any of the horrible things I had said before, and that he had absolutely every right to be very mad at me—but,
“PLEASE, PLEASE DON'T LET IT RUIN WHAT WE HAVE! DON'T LET IT RUIN US!”

Well, after feeling like a criminal, or a liar on a witch trial, he said he'd call me back a little later. And he did—to see if I wanted to go out.

Hmm—never forgive to forgiven in fifty-five minutes flat. Shall I be an actress or a lawyer?

I was ecstatic at his change of “heart.” Thrilled. He picked me up an hour afterward. The night started tense, but by the end—we were gazing at each other with more romance and tenderness than Romeo & Juliet.

Yep, I worked a little bit of my magic, hee, hee, hee!

I'm just irresistible.

Dear Nobody,

When Geoff forgave me, instead of deeming him as a sucker, instead of losing all respect for him and denouncing him as a weak excuse of a man—quite the opposite happened. I was genuinely touched by his forgiveness of me. It made me feel more human in some way—more special; and not in an obligated, indispensable way, but in an emotionally gratifying way.

I'm so glad to be back in my baby's arms. Yep, maybe I could love this one—he makes me feel so special—and he has restored my faith in the awesome power of forgiveness. It's just such a beautiful concept; and now Geoff's beginning to seem more beautiful, more real, and all the more wonderful to me.

I could maybe love him. I am almost there. I also know he has to care for me a great deal. I said such terrible things to him and he granted me forgiveness—after only a little anger and a little hurt was expressed—it should have been in exchange for much more anger and hurt, yet he spared me that unpleasantness. What a man. Then after all of that, there he was, welcoming me back with open arms. It felt so good.

I'll remember this the next time somebody really needs my forgiveness.

Dear Nobody,

So, me, Geoff, Sam and Sam's twelve year-old brother, Fred, went to the cemetery to get fucked-up. We each had two forty-ounce bottles of Crazy Horse Malt Liquor. We all just sat in a circle under the full moon on the soft grass—seeing who could get their first forty down the fastest. I remember the forty-ounce being extra fizzy that night, probably because of the cold. Sam finished his beer first—as usual. Even though Geoff is older than all of us—as well as the biggest—he threw-up first (mostly fizz). Fred ended up puking right afterwards, but he finished second, which was my usual place. Then I finished. Needless to say, with 80 ounces of malt liquor pumping through my hundred and six pound body, I was pretty drunk—and loving it.

We were all getting dizzy and Sam wandered over to a tall tree and started to piss. Geoff got up to talk to him—and started spinning in circles while describing, to no one in particular, how dizzy he was. Fred just sat on a tombstone grinning at Geoff. Then they got up and walked over to the tree. I tried to get up, but I toppled over—which was fine by me because I got to lie on my back and look at the sky. Even though the trees were shading the cemetery it was extremely clear that night. The stars were almost unnoticeable compared to the bright, shining moon. It almost didn't look real. I wondered if I was the only person in the world looking up at the beautiful sky that night. I glanced over at the three drunken clowns I was with, and wished that I was somewhere else.

Sam and I were probably the most intoxicated (as usual). He came over to get me up, and by then I had started a conversation with the vomit lying beside me. I apologized to the vomit for cutting our conversation short, before stumbling along after Sam. Geoff and Fred were ahead of us. Soon we established a new residence near the cemetery exit. We sat and talked for a while—happy with our new location—until we saw two police cars parked at the cemetery exit. Four policemen aimed their flashlights in our direction and started to walk toward us.

Geoff and Fred jumped up and ran back into the cemetery. Sam probably could have escaped too, but looked after me instead. He tried carrying me—but we both just spilled-over after the first two steps. Sam ran and hid from view behind the gate. He motioned with his arms for me to follow him. Intoxicated me thought if I ran fast enough—between the two cop cars—that they'd never see me. I immediately took off running but didn't happen to notice the step I had just skipped. I flew to the ground—landing between the two cars.

The cops didn't notice me until I hissed at Sam asking for his location. The two cops walked around the car and I heard Sam's voice telling me to run. I got up and immediately fell. I got up again—and started running as fast as I could. Just when I thought I was going to make it—one of the cops came up from behind me and shoved me onto the ground with both of his hands.

Next thing I knew I was on the ground licking gravel off of my lips. A flashlight shone directly into my eyes—not only was I dumbfounded—but blinded. I let out a guttural wail as I felt the cop's knee further compressing my back, as he put handcuffs on me. The cuffs were so tight they pinched the flesh on my wrists. The officer got one more good weight shift on my ribcage before his codependent came and they pulled me off the ground by my hair.

They were asking me questions just as fast as I was blocking them out. They pushed me in back of the cop car and I hit my head—hard—on the door frame. I flinched, after trying to use my elbows to stabilize myself, and realized that my elbows had been turned into puddles of pus and blood—and that the palms of my hands were raw and filled with bits of gravel. I screamed again when the cop pulled me upright. Blood was dripping from my arms and my calves and staining my socks.

The policeman said they'd loosen the cuffs if I answered their questions.

I agreed.

They asked me if I had been drinking or doing drugs.

I shook my head, “No,” thinking it was partly true because he'd asked about drugs, too. As I shook my head, I felt it fall to my shoulder. I just left it there.

The cop said I smelled like liquor and asked if I was intoxicated?

I told them, “Yes.”

I sat in the cop car for a long time. No one had loosened my cuffs yet—and sweat poured into my wounds. The saltiness stung, and the smell was making my stomach turn. I could see gravel in my knees and feel it on my palms and elbows. I looked over to the other car and saw Sam with his face down on the ground. Two cops were on top of him. He was put in a different car than me.

A cop finally came back over to me and loosened my cuffs. He got in the cruiser on the driver's seat and pulled out of the cemetery. He didn't say anything to me, which is kind of unusual (but I am in no way complaining) as we drove. I let my head hit the window with a thud and listened to his radio crackle and the dispatcher routinely spit out codes—of domestic disputes and auto theft.

The cop said he was taking me straight home, instead of to the station—which I was thankful for. We were almost at my street, when I hear the dispatcher say a name I knew, “Dylan.” I focused hard to understand what she was saying between crackles in the radio. When I heard his name, I started laughing; he was a really good friend of mine. My best friend. I probably would have been with him that night, if only he had answered his phone.

It was about two in the morning at this point. I was still buzzing from the liquor, and I started laughing at the idea of seeing Dylan at the police station. I wondered what he did to have the cops come to his house at this hour?

The dispatcher spoke in more codes, and then repeated his name. Then I heard her request an ambulance for him—due to a possible overdose. At first, I didn't believe it, but when I heard her say it again, I burst into tears and started crying. I was saying over and over, in between sobs, “No, no, I don't believe it!” The cop asked me what was wrong and I told him I knew that guy.

When we got to my house, I was in hysterics. The cop helped me to the door and explained to my mom that I was drunk and was found in the cemetery with a group of boys. I sat in a chair listening to my mother and the cop talking in the doorway. I yelled to my mom about what I had heard over the dispatch radio and she looked over at me. Then the cop looked at my mom and asked if she knew anything about it.

It turned out—Dylan had overdosed. He must have run out of the house as soon as someone had discovered what he did. My mother said Dylan showed up at our house around 1:00 a.m., with no shoes and no shirt on. My mom gave him a shirt to wear and talked to him for a while. She noticed there was something wrong with him and asked him about it. Dylan told her that he had overdosed on his Prozac—and other medicines. She talked to him for a while—then he left.

Not knowing I was there, Dylan went to the cemetery. He had to walk through it to get to the quarry, a wooded area completely isolated at night. Dylan went to the quarry—and laid himself out to die. When the ambulance picked him up, they found a bottle of fifty mg Prozac and bunch of heart pills and cocaine in his system. Dylan was in a coma for a while—and then his heart stopped.

Something or someone can be torn from you so fast.
They can just completely vanish—before you even know it. My time with Dylan seems like it was all a dream. I can't help asking myself,
“WHY DIDN'T I HELP HIM?”
I tried; I FELT for him. I tried to be indifferent—and I think maybe he knew. All in all, I felt ultimately powerless. The effect of a friends suicide is so confusing; a mixture of loss and guilt. I guess I learned from it too, though. I guess I learned to appreciate people more now. So that just in case, I won't have to appreciate them more when they're gone.

A few weeks before Dylan died he and I were in my basement hanging out. He was telling me about a dream he had where it was judgment day. He said skulls were flying around in the sky and he was surrounded by lightning. He said no one would help him—not even me. Dylan said in the end, everything was destroyed—
and he woke up screaming.

Dear Nobody,

It's been a few weeks since Dylan's suicide and I'm still not over it. Geoff has been a dick about it. He can't deal with me when I “get like this.” We got into another huge fight and haven't talked in a while. Just what I need.

Dear Nobody,

Man, I haven't written in this damn thing for a while. So, everything's getting like VERY complicated now. I'll put it this way. I've been doing a lot of drinking lately. A lot. More than I've ever done,
AND THAT'S A LOT!

Plus (I WAS BUZZING WHEN I WROTE THIS), I was drunk in public. I got arrested all of the times, except for once. So I have a $165 fine that will probably have to be paid by me doing community service. My hands, knees, and elbows are all torn up from when that cop pushed me down while I was running from him in the cemetery. Then he fucking held me down and put cuffs that were way too tight on me.

I forget how many times I've been cuffed since then….

Dear Nobody,

Geoff called last night to apologize about Dylan. His words surprised me—and so did the gentleness of his voice. Hearing his voice was like hearing a song that you once thought was so beautiful and special that when you hear it again, you forget why you ever stopped listening to it in the first place.

I still remember. Maybe I always will.

As beautiful as that song was—it made me cry. It saddened me beyond belief; the melody of his tune always changes—its either deception, insult, apology, or a declaration of love.

Geoff's voice still haunts me—a song I can't quite recall all of the words to—stuck playing in my head.