My friend Phil, long ago.
It was about this time that my job ended. Summer was upon us, the beach in its full glory and I had enough hours worked to apply for unemployment insurance. My boss, Larry K. filled out and signed the form and we parted with warm handshake. I filed it and anticipated a summer of undiluted fun. But it was in the two-week waiting period before the first check arrived that everything melted down.
Kim was the first victim. There were so many strangers coming into our house (friends of friends) that I lost it one night and screamed aloud for everyone to leave, immediately. Kim was the only one to comply right away and the only one I didn’t want to force out. He grabbed his few belongings and spent the night at one of his girlfriend’s nearby. The others grudgingly followed him out the door. But unlike him, came back the next day.
It just so happened that my college friend Phil lost his job the same week mine ended. He had a drinking problem far enough along to affect his work. He came over to my place in his convertible Fiat, depressed and wanting to talk about it. He then drags me to some dark bar where we do shots and some lines of coke he had with him, dumping the powder straight on the bar. We’re the only ones there, but the bartender at the far end notices right as Phil’s snorting his second line and kicks us out in a rage. It’s still morning.
On the way back to my place he picks up several bottles of booze, (he’d just cashed his last paycheck) and announces his intention to go on a three-day bender in my living room. Feeling it’s a little too early in the day to start, I convince him to change into some shorts, (he’d even packed a bag of clothes before coming over, so complete were his plans) and go for a swim. Right then a shady friend pops in and asks if we have any beers. We don’t, an issue that Phil decides must be speedily redressed. He hands over his car keys and a twenty-dollar bill to said ‘friend’ to go get some. We walk to the beach with towels and flip-flops as our courier is still revving the car in the driveway. We’ve left the front door unlocked for his return. We have our swim but when we get home the car is still gone and along with that Phil’s bag of clothes, his pants, Hawaiian shirt, wallet, money and I.D. The wallet contained his cashed paycheck, including his lay-off pay, over four hundred dollars.
Phil looked ready to explode. So to prevent this I told him my friend will be back, any minute, with a simple explanation. We still had the two bottles of whiskey on the counter, and so, to console ourselves, we did the logical thing and started drinking. The hours slip by. The car doesn’t return. But other friends drop by and commiserate with Phil’s sad story, his lost job, all his possessions stolen, his Fiat too, doubly sad and pathetic as they see him sitting there on the couch in his only remaining possession, his shorts, glass in hand, almost weeping. This touches heartstrings and a few go out and return with more booze, beers and a few joints.
At one point later that evening Phil stands up, still half naked and expounds to the six or seven of us sitting around him, in the finest strain of drunken, Irish eloquence: “In the last forty-eight hours I’ve lost my job, my car, my clothes, my keys, my wallet, all my money, and a bag of pot. What worse could happen to me now?” At this point he falls forward and bloodies his forehead on the edge of my coffee table. We sit him down and try to console him with more drink. Never challenge the Gods, especially when drunk.
The next morning our courier does return with the car, Phil’s clothes, wallet and keys, (though he’s wearing the Hawaiian shirt), and miraculously enough, most of Phil’s money. He said he had some business to settle, thanked him for the use of the car and explained that he put all of Phil’s possessions in the trunk because the door was open and he thought someone might step in and steal them, knowing my guests. I was amazed that I didn’t think of such a logical explanation the day before and even thanked him in front of Phil for such foresight, as it probably would have occurred and his money permanently lost.
Phil was so relieved he decided to start celebrating again, right then and there, slapping the car thief on the back and insisting he join us, but also demanding his shirt back. It was his favorite. It was a Sunday and thus a party day. Many people dropped in and we had a merry time. By dusk a sizable party started up just across the street and all my guests headed over there, the loud music and some women in that yard an irresistible draw. But Phil was tired, rolled out his sleeping bag on my couch and laid down, setting beside him a gallon jug of cheap Gallo wine someone had brought over, which he intended to drink before sleep. I sat with him but kept urging him to come to the party, the music beckoning our ears, and check it out at least for a few minutes. I could see plenty of girls in bathing suits from my doorstep, dancing. But he obstinately refused to go. He was in a grim mood and started talking about suicide. I was just as drunk, but aware that he was being histrionic, as I’d seen him in this state before, always at the end of a long bout of drinking. I humored him and began a dramatic speech on the various ways he might do it, using historical examples and then the benefits and drawbacks of each method, as I sat on a chair near him, dissecting the matter, like a Stoic.
While I was talking away he was smoking a cigarette, set it down to take another chug of wine and a minute later we both noticed his sleeping bag was on fire. He lay there apathetic, saying he wasn’t moving. This is the way he was going to die, he declared, by fire. I told him that was the worst way to go. He started laughing, with the smoke now filling up my living room. I grabbed the wine bottle and poured it over him and the sleeping bag. It put out the fire but he got up in a huff, went into my bathroom and started puking, amidst the blood and used needles junkies had left there. Then he gathered his stuff, (except the smoldering sleeping bag), and left, angry and drunk, speeding off to his apartment far across town, and truly mad at me.
I wouldn’t see him for another five years.
