He stumbled into my arms with a look in his eyes that told me he saw me, but didn’t know who I was. “Watzchout punk,” Eric mumbled, as if trying to remember which letters followed the previous to make a coherent sentence.
“Alright buddy, time to get you home,” I responded out of classic habit. This isn’t the first time I’ve taken Eric home from a party, or even the second. Actually, I’ve lost count of the times, but each seems to go the same as the last.
The sounds of Kendrick Lamar, high school gossip, and the chanting of “Shots! Shots! Shots!” mellowed into a distant white noise the farther we got from the Elliot mansion. I almost tripped on the aesthetically uneven cobblestone while gazing at the majestically naked Cupid fountain. It was the house to be at, the party to be at. And now, we were leaving.
I pushed his large body into the passenger’s seat, and tried to contain his flailing limbs. Each time I placed a foot, it’d magically find it’s way outside the car again. It took my entire body weight to secure the large mass of jello underneath the seatbelt and even then, the sight of one squirrel could catch his attention and he’d be gone.
“Stay,” I yelled at him, much as an owner would yell at a new puppy. And much as a new puppy would respond, he did not listen.
I’m not usually one to take care of someone, but for him, I’d do anything. And for him, anything to get him away from the party. Eric has a problem. I’m not familiar with drug dosages – I tend to stick with the classic cigarette – but I do know that he smokes a ton of this and snorts a ton of that, all after drinking a ton of those. His friends encourage him because they think it’s funny, and he likes the attention. Little does he know he’s only a punch line for them.
Whispers echoed from the balcony.
“There goes Gordo again.”
“Isn’t that sad.”
“Can’t even handle his liquor.”
And a final yell, “Better luck next time, Derek.”
“Thaz not my fujin name – ” Eric hollered with the last syllable cut off by the sound of the slamming car door. He looked at me this time, “Jew’ve been drankin. And jew drivin?” His drunken face looked shocked, like someone had flashed a camera too close to his eyes.
“Eric, I’m fine, and no one here is any more sober than me. God, I need a smoke.” I’ve never driven drunk before. There’s a certain calm to it, I’ll admit, provided by the alcohol and residual smoke I’ve harbored in my lungs. But also an element of pure terror provided by the anxiety of the world looking like a funhouse mirror.
The road was straight. The car was not. The rolling of gravel under my tires told me I was too far to the right, but then the katunk-katunk-katunk of the reflective line-markers told me I was too far to the left. I thought to myself, damn roads, so narrow. What if we just had a big-ass sheet of pavement that we drove on? No lines, no rails. What if the whole earth was covered in pavement, and we drove around as we pleased? That would work quite fine. Overhanging tree branches brushed my windshield and the little scrapes made me think my car was itchy, and the branches were scratching it. Thanks, tree branches, I thought contently, for scratching my itchy car.
“Why do you do this every time, Eric? Every single party.”
“Shot the fug up. And take me to yer plaze.”
“No way in hell.” I knew he wouldn’t want to go home tonight. He never does. I’ve always wondered what goes on behind closed doors in that house but I’ve never had the heart to ask. I don’t want to hear the answer. But he wasn’t coming back with me. My parents didn’t like Eric much, no matter our long-spanning friendship of six years. He was always the “trouble-child,” always the “Oh, you’re inviting Eric over?” with the facial expression that looked like they just smelled something rotten.
The world was quiet, and so was I. I looked over to Eric, wondering if he knew. I’ve loved him for a while now, more than a friend, but I don’t think his girlfriend would appreciate me telling him. But where was she? I am the one taking care of him. I am the one driving him home. I’m always the one driving him home. And her? She’s probably getting high in Jarod Elliot’s hot tub right now, completely oblivious to the fact that Eric is passing out in my passenger’s seat. Would Eric remember me taking him home? Is he glad it’s me and not her?
“Eric – ” I said.
And in an instant, I saw the deer – its eyes as beaming and glazed over as Eric’s. And in an instant, everything turned to dust.
