Chute

U around? I stare at the message from an unknown number with the 326 area code. David is the only person I know who would send such a message, and at this hour. His constant roving and ineptitude at refilling his prepaid phone account means I can never get a hold of him. I sit up in bed, it’s 1:07am and I’ve already tossed and turned fruitlessly for over an hour. My back aches from the twenty-year-old twin mattress in my childhood bedroom. He knows I make the rounds during the holidays, returning home to visit old friends. I’ve been waiting for this message all week and finally it’s arrived, on my last night in town before an early flight in the morning. 

Skirting the question, I reply, where are you? I refuse to stare at the screen while waiting for his response. I’ve been burnt by David too many times to count. Texting me to make plans to meet, only to never hear back from him. Or, successfully making plans, just for him to not show and leave me waiting for hours. 

A quick reply pings to my phone. Garfield. I stare at the bright screen. I’m confused by the choice of venue but elect not to question it. In this scenario, David holds all the cards. Easily spooked by follow-up questions or any implication of doubt, his neuroses make him elusive and a flight risk. As this is my last opportunity to see him before leaving, I decide to withhold my misgivings and acquiesce.  

Be there in a few. I wretch the covers from my body and swing my legs onto the floor in one fell swoop. My carry-on suitcase lays open on the other twin bed across from mine. Rooting around in the dark, I pull on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. 

David and I were only a grade apart. On paper we are polar opposites. Naturally athletic, with an easy carefree grin, David had a quality that set him apart and attracted people to him. He could whip the entire schoolyard into a singular game of dodgeball, rile the cafeteria into a food fighting frenzy, and sway teachers into an early dismissal. His extreme extrovertism, along with this quasi Charles Manson-like quality, meant he always had a posse of kids circling him. 

Making friends didn’t come easily to me as it did to David. I am a quintessential introvert, quiet, reserved and much more comfortable reading in the library than leading an insurrection on the playground. I’m a worrier, every step I take is calculated and spontaneity isn’t my strong suit. In the presence of David however, I am more confident, bolder, adventurous even. For as long as I can remember, David has been my protector. Perhaps my elfish size and scrawny physique, an archetype of the runt of the litter, beckoned to him that I was in need of guardianship. Whatever his reasoning, David has allowed me to pal around with him through every undertaking and exploit.

Dad’s old leather coat, one of the few items I salvaged while mom was on a cleansing rampage after his death, hangs on the hook by the door. I pull it on over the sweatshirt. This is the only way I can wear the jacket, it’s much too big for me otherwise. Bird-boned and short in stature, I’m a facsimile of my mother. How I lamented having her delicate features growing up, instead of dad’s strong jaw and six-foot-four frame. My hands fumble with the multiple deadlocks on our front door and I note a tremor in my normally steady hands. I’m jittery, anxious to see David with my own two eyes but also petrified at what I will see. 

David got sick a few years ago, though at the time we didn’t know that. He had begun to withdraw from our group of friends. We saw him less and less, and when we did he would become combative, convinced that we were plotting against him. His discourse was long and winding like a road with no destination, at times just a meaningless string of words. By the time I tried to get him help, he was already self-medicating, and the situation went from bad to disastrous. A victim of David’s wrath, I left town for my own safety. 

It’s only a two block walk to Garfield which I take at breakneck speed. Keeping my head down, I approach Garfield Elementary School and slow my steps to take a cautious look at the campus. The stairs leading up to the school are deserted, along with the benches that align the front path. I wonder where else he could possibly have intended to meet. I continue walking past the school, taking a left at the corner and looking for any movement near the side of the building. As I tread along the chain link fence that surrounds the school playground, I sigh. David has stood me up again. The brief exchange at least provides proof of life. 

A movement out of the corner of my eye sends my heart beating into overdrive. I subconsciously finger the scar that trails the side of my face as I scan the playground. I notice nothing out of the ordinary, the field, basketball court, and playground are vacant. A thump sound of some kind pulls my attention to the jungle gym. Street lights provide only a dim illumination, but squinting I spy a darkened shadow within the enclosed tube. A figure is lying inside the slide of the jungle gym. 

Backtracking to the fence’s turnstile, I enter the schoolyard and head towards the colorful monstrosity. A newer edition to the playground since our days here, this two-level jungle gym has several creatively placed stairs and ladders. The apparatus, a kid prison cell of orange metal bars, has a whimsical twisting chute. I approach the slide and knock lightly on the tube. “It’s me”, I announce, my voice sounding higher pitched than I intended.

I hear rustling and a familiar voice, “Come up.” Opting for the stairs, I climb to the second level where the A-line roof allows me to stand erect, but just barely. Though I know the man before me is David, I’m horrified by his appearance. Stooped to accommodate his six-foot height, his silhouette reveals long unkempt hair and a scraggly beard. His clothes consist of dingy jeans with gaping holes at both knees, a filthy yellow sweatshirt, and sneakers, so dilapidated the soles are separating from the toe box. Despite a distance of four feet, I can detect that his hygiene has been neglected. 

We sit cross-legged, facing each other. Trying not to stare, I note the gauntness in his face, a face that appears much older than his twenty-seven years. His arms hug his body as he sways, to either keep warm or to self-soothe. He doesn’t meet my gaze, and I sit, patiently waiting. A minute goes by with David still staring at our shoes. Finally he asks, “How’s mom?”

I lean back on my hands and sigh, “Still crazy.” I instantly regret my choice of words and my eyes fly to his face. 

He smirks, meets my gaze, and says, “Some things never change.” The ice broken, we both relax. 

Nostalgia hits me as I take in our surroundings, the playground, the field. “Do you remember when Alfonzo DiMarco tried to jump me over there?”

“That dumb beast? He was a real piece of work.” 

We go back and forth for a while, enjoying an easy dialogue. It’s moments like these when I feel once again I am the yin to his yang.  

After pausing a few beats I ask, “Where are you staying these days?” 

David scratches his beard, as if pondering the intricate question. “Here and there.” 

My eyes dart around the tangerine cage, does he literally mean here in the jungle gym? His stare burns a hole through my skull, as if trying to provoke me. After another moment I start, apprehensive, to broach the topic. 

“Mom says you can come home, if you agree to rehab and medication.” 

He scoffs, “The irony, she wants me off drugs so she can put me on more drugs.” 

I nod weakly, unsure of what I should say next. “Maybe you could just try for a few months–” 

The drastic increase in his volume startles me, “Fuck that! I will not be zombified by that poison again!” He proceeds with his tirade, having entered a familiar conversational loop that we invariably dredge up. 

I can’t stand to listen to it all again. “How is it any different than how you have been poisoning yourself? You don’t appear to be the embodiment of health.” 

His volume continues to climb and I sense a transformation looms ahead. “The difference is choice! You can’t force me to take medicine. I won’t–”, his hands suddenly clench my knees and I jolt to my feet. The metamorphosis is complete. My idol has turned into a fiend. He is on his feet too, closing the gap between us. 

Aware of the confined space, I backpedal into the bars behind me and put my palms out to keep him at bay. “Hey, hey! Back up!” He grabs my wrists and pulls me towards him. Despite his thin frame, he still has a vise-like grip. 

“What’s wrong? Are you scared of me?”, he taunts. I push his hands away but I’m no match for his strength. 

Yes, yes, I am. But I won’t demean myself further with the admittal. Desperate like a cornered cat, I knee him as hard as I can in the genitals. Instantly relinquishing my wrists and recoiling, he falls to his knees as I push past him and fling myself headfirst down the slide. 

Scampering out of the tube, I sprint across the yard. Yells of hateful profanities specially customized to my insecurities pelt me in the back. Home again, I don’t wait to catch my breath as I dial and press the phone to my ear. Watching from the window, I wait for the car’s arrival. I enter the car with my bag, sit back, and close my eyes as the taxi takes me away.