Sitting in a Dark Parking Lot

More often than not I miss them. My old friends. One friend in particular who was more than that. He was unlike anyone I have ever met. His life was completely his own, and he spent most of it in his beat-up red truck. I would stumble upon it walking across the school grounds long after they had closed, or driving through town. If I had to I would walk on, waving if I thought he'd see me. When I could I would tap on the window, jump in if he'd let me. I was happy then, and alive. Knowing we could be whatever we wanted to be. Whoever we wanted to be.

We could be the outcasts if we wanted.

We could be the people who laughed at the thought of death and slept in the backs of pickup trucks.

One of best nights of my life happened in that truck. It was the two of us, plus a few other friends. We were sitting at the back of a theater parking lot, joking loudly, laughing. He was the loudest of us all, the glue that held us together. He kept us laughing. At one point he started rocking back and forth, shaking the truck so much it felt like it was about to tip over. I would have stayed there for days if I'd had the chance. The energy that buzzed between us had lit me on fire.

I realized I was about to miss my curfew. I jumped out of the truck.

Just then, I felt something die. I still felt the energy, but I was apart from it. That truck was like a conductor between all of us, and most importantly between me and him.

I don't remember who said goodnight, who stayed silent. I like to think he was one of the people who spoke up. Even now, months later, with all the proof in the world saying I'm wrong, I like to think that he cared.

Another time we were in the truck was the afternoon. He was warm that day, although it rained outside. I don't remember why. He talked to me about music, about life, about some girl he liked. I'm not a jealous person, and never expected anything to happen between us, so I stayed silent. Commented on the song. I think it was Kanye, or maybe Outkast. He turned it up.

 Another time we were in a van. I don't know what happened to the truck. Two other guys were with us and we were all joking around. Laughing so hard I'm afraid I missed some of the important parts. He held up his phone to send a video to the girl he was falling for this month. I made an ass of myself on purpose as I waved.

Later on that night we were still in the van. We weren't drunk but we might as well have been. Someone ended up with their pants off. A bit later there was yelling from the driver's seat. I thought he was going to punch someone. Something. There was no reason except that the drunk feeling was wearing off. I got out as quickly as I could, trying to hang on to the intoxication as I got out of the van. A van is nothing more than a vessel, but that night it was like a magnetic field, keeping sensation from escaping with me. I could have collapsed as I walked away, like a machine being powered off.

Every time that I drove away I sped down the road- twenty, twenty-five miles over the limit. It wasn't suicidal, or at least, I don't believe it was, even though I fantasized about crashing on one of the hairpin curves. It's more like I had lost all direction. I didn't have a good reason why I was going back, why I was driving away. I wanted to stay, and every single time I left it got harder not to turn back. I sped because if I didn't I would go in reverse.

Another time we weren't together physically. We were texting a group chat with the rest of our friends in it. He came out. I could tell it was more an act of desperation than anything: he needed human touch, affection, and never got it. He would take anything. He opened up on his loneliness, his pain, without trying. But it was good news, too. I had a way to help him, to heal him. To be there for him.

I didn't do it, of course. I didn't do anything except wait for a reason when I already had one. The one way I could have eased his pain and I was too afraid to do it.

Another time we were in a parking lot. The truck was there and we sat in the back. We had five minutes before my sister got there. I wanted to spill everything I've ever thought out of my mouth. To say things I was too afraid to say. Not about him but about everything. I could talk to him. I knew this. My sister was walking back toward us and I never got a chance.

Another time we were in the van again. The truck was still gone. He said he was as straight as a board now. A guy had asked him out and he could barely find the words to express his disgust. I wasn't too disappointed. I'd find another way to help him. That was all that mattered to me, the helping. I didn't want him to be lonely. I made a joke to lighten the mood. He told me to shut up. Yelling again from the front seat. Calling me a faggot. I got out of the van. There was no electric feeling to kill. I just stepped from a lonely place to another.

Another time we were at his house. I was alone with him in his basement for a while. Another guy came later. I didn't know what to talk about. I hated that I couldn't find words, so but I stayed silent anyways. He was different that night. Maybe different in his own home. His little brother came down the steps and started bothering him and he lost it. There was a loud noise that I still remember and hate, a slap that didn't belong down here where it was safe. His brother had a red mark on his skin. There were no apologies, just excuses. I think, probably, that it had happened before.

On the topic of his brother. One of the last times we texted, he mentioned his brother, how he was trying to treat him with more kindness. How he loved him. I try to believe that. It was the last good thing I heard from him.

The first time I really met him we were in English class. We had a mutual friend. I'd seen him around but this was the first time I'd truly taken him in. Big, muscular kid, stubbly beard, tan skin, slight accent. They were happy in that class. I was happy too. We talked about movies and life and things that made us laugh. Stupid shit. We drew pictures on the blackboard on the wall and covered them up with posters so our teacher wouldn't see them. She did eventually and didn't erase them. I haven't gone back to revisit that blackboard, but I've heard that the chalk drawings are still there. In a way, we are all immortalized.

Another time he was in his truck. I saw it sitting in the parking lot, knew he'd be in the back. I slammed my hand against the window. He jumped up and I couldn't get out of the way fast enough. We laughed a little at it, but my ride was there, car running. I had no excuse to stay.

The last thing I said to him was a simple question. Just a "how's it going?" over text. I was ready to ignore the loneliness he'd made me feel, the anger. Even the fear. He never responded and it was a good thing. We don't lock eyes in the hallway anymore, although I still try out of habit sometimes.

The last day I really talked to him, was truly with him face to face, was much worse. We were in the van again. A mutual friend in the passenger seat, and me in the backseat. He ignored us almost completely. We were asking him to come back to the group, to talk with all of us again. He told us no. I could tell he was bored at this point, although I'm not sure what we did to bore him. What we did to make him so exhausted, so angry. He hardly talked to me at all. The mutual friend felt like a middle man, trying to hold us together. From the driver's seat, all I heard was anger. He insulted our friends. He cursed us. He said we always talked about the same things, even though to me they were the only things that mattered. We had talked about love, about life. About pain. I'd spilled all my secrets and he'd told most of his. I got out of the van and it was relief. Like I could only be myself out here, in the middle of a cold parking lot. I sped as I went home, because that's what you do when the thing you're leaving is terrible, and you have to get away as fast as you can.

Somewhere in all of this I overstepped. Told him more than I had ever intended to. Perhaps that's what bored him- I had no secrets left to tell. One of these times was over text. I told our group about something I'd been hiding for months. He messaged me later that night, as my world was falling apart.

He told me that we were all in life together, that he had my back. That things would be okay and that he loved me. That we were brothers. That I was brave. He told me that he was still behind me.

Out of all the memories I have of him, I like to leave it at that. The feeling I had after that moment. After all the moments like it. After texting for hours and finally saying I needed to sleep. After jumping out of the back of his truck, just before my feet hit the ground.

The memory of it is a feeling of pain, yes. But in those moments, it was more like an act of faith. I was leaving, but I knew that someone I loved was still sitting in a dark parking lot somewhere.

And when I was ready to come back, he would be waiting.