A Few Good Conversations (Well, At Least 10)

By Devork All Rights Reserved ©

Drama / Romance

Blurb

Most years, I think, are skippable. They suffer from this mundanity, this relentlessly oscillating sense of day in and day out. These are the years you could summarise in a sentence or two. To say that 2014 was the best year of my life would be unfair to years 1998 through to 2013, and all the years that followed. But it was certainly the most memorable. The tragedy of 2014 is that we were all so young, and youth is only enjoyed by those who are no longer. 2014 was a year that reminded me about life when I thought I needed an escape from it. When I think of 2014, I see us in the back of a borrowed car. It’s nearing 2 in the morning. It smells like cheap wine, cigarettes, and single malt whiskey. The windows are rolled down, and they’re reluctantly letting in cool air. A Third Eye Blind song is playing. The wheels are spinning. On the other hand, we hardly seem to be moving at all. And what follows is the best conversation I’ll ever have.

Before

It was another year in the summertime. The wind was blowing in the city, and I didn’t love it yet. It was the season to be jumping fences and breaking into parties through the window. It was the season for bloodstains on the mattress and sleeping on the couch. It was the season for stationary Range Rovers in that one parking lot where I learnt to smoke pot and my best friend got addicted to shooting up.

“Keen for Would You Rather?” Said the kid in the Lakers jersey.

“Not if you don’t pass me that doobie.” Replied the girl in the Rock’n’Roll shirt.

“Never mind then.”

“But it’s my weed!”

“And it’s my car.”

“Your mother’s.”

“You’re starting to sound like my best mate.”

“You have mates?”

“Cut me deep, why don’t you.”

“I wasn’t aware you had feelings either.”

“Would you rather,” he said, ignoring her razor sharp banter “be happy or drug free?”

She leaned over and snapped the tight roll from his fingers with entitlement that is characteristic of a complete lack of gratitude.

“People only have a certain capacity for fucked up things,” she said with a nice long drag. “And once you’ve exceeded that capacity, happiness isn’t really an option anymore. Once you’re over the limit you’ve just gotta medicate.”

“I don’t think that really answers the question.”

“I’m saying I can’t have either.”

“Yeah, but what if you could? If you could, which one would you wish for.”

“Giacci, if I could wish for anything, I wouldn’t waste it on me.”

“You’re being a real downer tonight.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not the one being a little bitch about my dad.”

“Whatever.”

“Know what’ll help my mood?”

She pulled out a needle, and they both smiled.

They were the poet kids writing about life with cocaine lines. She was the bleach to the teeth and whitening strips. He was the parked car conversations that I never had. These were the friends I loved the most. And I was at home with a bone in my hand that kept me tethered to a drink. These were the friends I loved the most.

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