Be Good
April 7, 2003
I'd sit on the edge of Brigette’s filthy bed, waiting while she looked for something to wear. She'd try on these shoes, then those. The sheets were gray, the pillows nearly black. She had a ritual for making the bed: Throwing all the pillows and sheets into a tangled pile and covering the whole mess with a plastic shower curtain to protect it from the ferret who would shit and piss on everything while she was out. But she wasn't ready for that yet—she still hadn't figured out what to wear. "What's it like out?" she asked.
"It's nice—pretty warm."
"Do I need a jacket?"
"I'd say so—yeah."
"Will I be warm enough in this?"
"Probably."
It was always more or less the same every time. I mean, the questions never varied, but sometimes I'd tell her she needed a heavier coat, and other times, that lightweight black thing would do. The TV would be on until the last second. Blasting it's nonsense—whining for attention. It would always take her about 10 minutes to find the remote. Sometimes it would be inside a shoe next to the bed. Or under a week-old newspaper. Or fallen into a makeup bag so cluttered with old makeup that it would come out powder-coated and smudged with soft nuggets of eye pencil and lipstick. She'd finally settle on a pair of shoes, adjusting her toe ring through her sock before slipping one foot in, then the other. She'd reach into the dirty makeup bag and pull out something, then absentmindedly apply it to her face. I'm not sure if she was ever putting it where it was designed to go, but it didn't seem to matter much. Lipstick on her cheeks—eyeliner on her lips—what difference did it make? "Ok, I'm just gonna have a hit, and then we can go."
And with that, she'd pack a bowl. It took another 5 minutes to find a lighter. "You don't have a lighter, do you?"
"Nope."
She'd pat around where she sat—feeling between her legs, on either side of her, looking on the nightstand, shuffling through the ashes and tissues. "There's one," and with that, she'd flick it, hold it over the popping, glowing weed, and breathe deep. "Ok," she'd say while holding her breath, "I'm ready." She'd tap the bowl clean while she exhaled, then put it in her bag. She'd say goodbye to the ferret and tell him to be good. Then the cat that always slept on the chair by the door. And then she'd call out to the cat that I had never seen. "Be good, you guys."
They never were.
December 31. 2003
Gelukkig nieuwjaar. I jumped the gun and got drunk last night. Everywhere I went was quiet -- everyone was saving their energy for the big fat holiday. First stop was at the bar where Bridgette works. Although we had spoken on the phone once, I hadn’t seen her in weeks. Months, maybe.
I arrived about 15 minutes before her shift ended, but she couldn't stay. "Jamie!” she said. “I need to talk to you."
She was stoned.
"So let's talk," I said.
"I can't stay. You should've told me you were coming."
"I didn't know that I was coming until the last minute. Besides, I just wanted to pop in to wish you a happy new year, that's all."
I don't like going to that bar. I never did, really, but that didn't keep me from spending a few solid months hanging around there a couple of years ago. "But I want to talk to you," she said. She ducked into the back room to gather her belongings and sneak a hit off her pipe, then emerged with her huge black backpack over her shoulder. She walked around the bar, gave me a hug, and a kiss. I asked her if she remembered drunk dialing me on Christmas night. Judging from how fucked up she sounded, I assumed she didn't. But she did. To call it drunk dialing isn't 100 percent accurate anyway. She's been functioning on a daily blend of Percocet, Xanax, pot, and booze for years, with the occasional Ketamine bender thrown in for good measure. I don't know how she does it, but it's catching up to her. She's super-skinny and malnourished. Her eyes are dark and sunken, her cheeks hollow. "You said if I ever needed to call you, that I could."
"Of course," I told her, "But you didn't seem to want to talk too much that night."
"I was a mess."
"What's going on?"
"It was bad," she said, and put her head on my shoulder. "I did something stupid." She told me she'd tried to kill herself that night. She had tried to hang herself with her ferret's leash, but it snapped. She showed me the mark. I thought about my sister and the guy she dated, who hung himself. 'Tis the season. There was a time when that would've shocked me, but not anymore. I guess that's why, whenever my friend Richard asks me if I'm depressed, I say, "No." I mean, compared to some people I know, I'm a regular ray of sunshine. I never let minor depression get me down. Anyway, she couldn't stay, and with that happy news, she was off. "I'm working tomorrow night for New Year's," she said on her way out the door.
"Honestly, I won’t be coming here for New Year's Eve."
"I don't blame you."
So I wandered around for a while — stopped into a few empty bars here and there. And then, what goes around, comes around: I drunk dialed. A series of nonsensical messages mumbled into various answering machines scattered across the globe. Hello world.
