Caring is exhausting. My friends and I don’t do it well. That’s why we chug beer, scream songs, and make sarcastic comments. But then the universe flexes and someone overdoses, or a family member dies, or a burglar stabs your coworker, and you just can’t laugh it off.
So, punks, this is your emergency plan for when you get out of the drunk tank and your crush is in the hospital:
Sip the coffee. You’re not gonna nap, and it’s hot enough to flower in your throat, but not so hot that it burns. Drink deeper.
Feel the need to do something. But what? Fight a cop? Walk the streets looking for someone who is carrying a knife and a photo of Mona?
Punch the side of the couch. Hit the frame by accident. Feel drained when the knuckle pain subsides. Stiffen when you once again feel the need to perform your caring.
Text her: Im sorry to hear about what happened. I hope youre Ok
Realize you should have called instead but worry that following up so fast would be overkill.
Think about how calling will not heal her or erase the drunk tank’s grime. Picture a shadow creeping through her apartment.
Wonder why you’re not weeping. Wonder why, aside from a crumpled face and a few tears down the cheek, you haven’t really let loose with the crying since that one time in high school when nothing in your new city felt satisfying or reliable. Wonder why there’s a stack of bad things tottering on top of your heart, but they just won’t fall.
There’s golden brown knee hair. Below it, faded navy corduroy love seat. Beyond that, flowery couch. Between couch and window, a bike-size space. Drifts of fine, dry dirt are sprinkled on the space’s shining wood floor.
The cops owe you a bike and today’s extra half hour of walking.
Call the cops on the cops.
It’s weird to hear 911 ringing. You’d expect them to answer immediately. Picture a 911 operator gingerly setting down an iron then hustling to the phone.
“Yes, I’d like to report a stolen bicycle . . . Yes, I will hold.”
There’s enough time to start wondering about the point of this, but not enough time to act on that newfound doubt.
“I do. On Strawberry Street around ten fifteen, ten thirty last night. Officer John Donahue made me leave it unlocked while he detained me.”
You are an outraged citizen, and this outrage will not stand.
The cop pauses, sighs, takes down info.
There’s still a shadow in Mona’s apartment.