I keep telling him that I will pick him up, that I'm only five miles away, so he won't drive drunk. He insists that he's okay. Morpheus says that he wants some pizza, that he's starving--or maybe a burrito.
As I'm driving into town towards his house, I stop at two Mexican restaurants, and two Italian restaurants, and all are closed because of the late hour. The only business that is open is Burger King. I order him two tacos, and wait around in the fast food place. The people ordering before and after me look like they're either homeless or day laborers. One kid looks like he's drunk, hounding for a snack.
As I take the sack, and head towards my Mazda, I get a flashback of my previous life as a private dancer--the all night hours, the strange people I encountered, the risks that I inevitably take.
I'm driving to his house, and I'm listening to No Doubt, particularly "Don't Speak." The Tragic Kingdom album is arguably one of the very best that came from the '90's. The whole idea of meeting up with him begins to sound less and less appealing. I don't want to have this same argument I've been having with him, but I find it to be inevitable. Of course, we're going to fight about this. I tell myself that I'll just be there long enough to check to make sure he's safely home, and to deliver the tacos.
By the time I arrive, he's asleep on the couch, clutching his cellphone in one hand. I walk up to him, notice he's oddly dressed, and then touch his ankle. He opens his eyes, and no surprise appears on his face, like I'm there every morning when he wakes up, and there every night while he slumbers.
No comments:
Post a Comment