ELIJAH
ME: It's time to come home.
I send Bryant the text and stare at my screen until he replies. I haven't heard from him in two days. I'm done with this. If he wants us to be the ones to solve this problem without help or involvement from Our parents, then he needs to get his ass back here and help me to help him.
BRYANT: Can't
BRYANT: Car isn't ready.
ME: I'm coming out again then. I'll fix it for you.
BRYANT: No. We're good. I'm working on it.
ME: No. You are working on being an alcoholic.
BRYANT: Don't be dramatic. I have it under control.
I have to stop myself from throwing my phone. There are many things I don't know in this world, but what I do know is that Bryant for sure does not have it under control. I don't have time right now to manage his life and mine, but my parents gave me a few days to figure this out and I have no choice but to head back out and drag him home myself.
This time the traffic is s nightmare. It takes me hours to get there. I roll into town around dinner time. His grandparents are surprised to see me, but I think also relieved as well. Maybe they have also noticed his drinking.
"He isn't here," his grandmother says when she greets me.
I check the time on my phone. It's 6pm.
"Do you know where he is?" I ask.
His grandparents share a glance and then shake their heads.
"Sorry," she tells me. "If I had to guess, he's back out with his friends playing pool." There's a pause, where I wonder if she is trying to form her words carefully. I feel like we are all doing that round Bryant now. The he continues. "I'm sure his parents are missing him. Maybe he can get a ride back with you."
It's terrible the position he is putting everyone in. This isn't him. Watching my friend self-destruct is not something I ever thought I'd witness. I give his grandparents each a hug.
"I'll try to catch up with him" I say. "I need his help on some cars back home."
It's not true. Bryant is terrible with cars. He mostly watches me work and plays DJ while I figure out what's wrong or ad some modification he's researched. I never tell anyone though, I let him pretend he did as much work as I had.
I slip into my car. Other than the bar from the previous visit, I don't have any idea where he might be. I'll have to start there. My hand rubs over my face, the scratch of my chin reminding me what a long week this has been already. The engine roars to life as I leave the residential street and head for the seedy belly of the small city
The bar is dark except for the neon lights and it's surprisingly full for a weeknight. I don't see him at the bar, so I weave my way through the wayward barstools and drunk people on my way to the pool tables. I haven't been inside many bars given my age, but this isn't how I imagined them. There's nothing lively happening here, just old song played through a speaker in the back, and a sticky floor beneath my feet. This bar is for regulars, not for a fun once-in-a-while type crowd.
I don't see him anywhere. I check the bathroom and find it empty.
"Are you looking for your friend?" A large man asks when I emerge.
"Yes. Have you seen him?"
I remember him from the other night. He had been one of the pool players that seemed to be looking for a fight before I arrived.
"He's outback," he tells me.
I don't like the sound of that, but I don't have time to question him further. I rush to the back door, which is down a long dark hallway. When the back door swings open it's hard to see anything. The night is black now, and even if there we3re sunlight, the alley is skinny with large walls on both sides. There is a single light hanging over some dumpsters, and that's when I see him. A man curled up and slumped against the gate to the trash.
"Bryant?" I ask cautiously.
He doesn't answer. My heart races as I make my way through the alley to where he is. My feet slosh through puddles of old beer and water. It reeks.
'Bryant?" I call again.
This time he moves. I grip him beneath his arm to help lift him to his feet. He can't stand on his own. He's drunk, and dirty. His lip is bleeding and his eye is swelling.
"What the fuck happened?" I ask.
"Fight," he answers. It come out in a rush and laced with the smell of vodka.
"No shit. But who?" I ask as I throw his arm over my shoulder. He is weak and he winces as we take the first step forward.
"Big guy," he answers.
"What did you do?"
"He didn't appreciate that I called him a sandbagger," he says with a chuckle, but the talking only makes his lip split further.
"Let's get you in the car," I tell him.
I head for the backdoor but he motions for me to go around the building.
"It's longer that way," I argue.
"I was eighty-sixed. I don't need you getting your ass beat also," he explains.
"We can't bring you back to the house," I tell him as we hobble around the exterior and to my car very slowly.
"I know," he agrees.
We stay silent until we reach the car. I help him inside and then move around to the driver's side door. By the time I get it open and slip inside, I can hear him crying beside me.
"I can't do this anymore," he whispers.