There's A Place In The Stars For When You Get Old

He had gotten to that part of an evening of excess where he's literally speaking in tongues; using words that can only be understood between himself and his god. His focus was approximately 12 feet beyond your head when he turned to you and tossed those magic words your way. I was realizing a little late, as I myself had had more than enough thick and ice cold vodka and bong hits, that he was in no shape to be out there in the garage anymore.

I think he may have said something about cowboys...

Scruggs, the bad influence that all bad influences seem molded after, was finding absolute comedy in his shambling and earnest nonsense. He kept providing more drinks and goading him into drinking them. I pulled Scruggs' fat form away and tried asking him kindly not to give him anymore booze. Asking Scruggs nicely to do something was like feeding a five year old candy and coke and asking him to sit still and be quiet. Kindness equated to weakness in Scruggs' diabolical eyes.

His slurs had become passionate, he wanted so badly for someone to understand him. I grabbed him by the shoulders and told him I was taking him home. He tried to focus on my eyes and I could feel anger, derision, fear and hopelessness coming out of there. But it was tough to tell as he wasn't really there anymore, he hadn't been for awhile.

It was on that short trip home that I suggested we get out of town, away from external forces that were creating his demise more and more quickly. He was near tears and I could almost feel the powerful focus it took to pull tangible words together.

"It's not the drugs," he said, trying to beat me to any reasoning. He was wrong, but also so right. The drugs had caught him in a spiral that he couldn't or didn't care to pull himself out of. What I didn't see at the time beneath the constant flow of that crystal river though was the depression and fear and self loathing that opened that appetite.

He had passed out by the time we got to the apartment. Out so far that a volley of good shakes and couple of hard slaps couldn't raise him. I tried to get him out of the car, only managing to watch him tumble to the parking lot. Had I not gotten him over on his side, it was likely he would have drowned on the flood of whisky and vodka and beer that erupted from his mouth.

I struggled for close to 40 minutes, trying to get his lifeless form up an amazing amount of stairs. And I swear to his god and anybody else’s that it had occurred to me more than once just to leave him outside. But I got him into the apartment and left him sleeping on the living room floor.

The following days, the last days that I would spend living in Southern California, things seemed to be easier between us. There seemed to be a breach in the shields of avoidance we had been carrying around. There seemed to be a decision made for the better...

“Seemed to be” is way too pliable a thought to rely on though.