"What's up, dude," I pry, and softly, because most times I hate to pry at all. But this shit seems serious.
"Fuck man, Drew was in a car accident."
"Drew Dellis?"
"Who's that on the phone?" asks Grant.
"It's Taylor. Yeah, Dellis. Two girls and a guy he was with died. He's in critical, just hanging on, and they don't know if he's going to make it. He's got third degree burns to pretty much his entire body," he says with no emphasis on anything. His eyes are unfocused and way off somewhere else, not in Barcelona anymore.
That stone I sometimes feel in my gut drops hard like an upper-cut to the stomach and my breath gets stuck in the back of my throat. "Was he with Nanaz?"
"No. Er - I don't think so..."
"Fuck, man. That fucking sucks." Max has always had a way with words. He'd always seem round up the mood of a situation so succinctly, and today was no different. Such a sunny late morning walk to the San Cugat train station had suddenly turned somber, and his words echoed the ones sounding off in my head. Burning through neurons. I hadn't known Drew like Mike and Taylor had. They'd been as thick as thieves in those first two years at UC Santa Cruz while Grant and Max and I were dicking around in community college. The year I transferred up, he had transferred down to USD to play soccer, but he would come up all the time to visit the boys, and I'd met him just a handful of times. That's all I'd needed though. That guy was a class act. A gentleman. A handsome charmer. One of the nicest guys I'd ever met. He was loaded, but it was impossible to hate him for it. I'd feel like a dick if I did. Nanaz was his girlfriend, and she was just about everything he was, except, of course, she was a girl, and instead of playing soccer, she smoked weed. They fit together like some jigsaw puzzle of grand love. No, he didn't deserve this.
"He's a fighter," I say. "An athlete. He's too good. He'll hang on." And in my mind I pray that it's so. I'm not a Church going man. Hell, I can't even remember the last time I'd been. But me and God are like this. Like criss-crossed fingers. My omnipotent friend, the old man upstairs. I ask him for things, I pray, I plead, for situations, for turns of events. "I just want to kiss her once more." He's a listener, I think, it may take years for them to sort out, but miraculously they almost always do. I'll find myself in front of the girl that I wanted so bad all those years ago, together and alone in the middle of an empty street, and inside I laugh at all the silly things I wanted way back when, trying so hard not to let it spill out and ruin things. I'd see him smiling down on me in that moment when my eyes are closed, laughing with me, and I'd thank him. And when I do I know I never thank him enough. Not nearly. Even though I find myself thanking him all the time. For pretty days, for good waves, for health, for happiness, for the little things. And it's funny because finding those little things, small nothings to be thankful for that can tip frowns upside down and bring fullness to an empty soul. He's a G, and he's always there for me no matter how many times I fuck up or forget.
He's always ready for a little deal on the barter system. A good challenge, I think, does him well, keeps him on his toes in the clouds. I remember the moment back in Marseille, on the train in the station waiting to go to Nice, ready drugs and dancing and reckless abandon. I was in a window seat, leaning against it looking out, watching the people sheep-ing by, en masse. Except one wasn't because you can't sheep by in a wheelchair. She was young, and her scalp was bald and she didn't have eyebrows, and that far-off look in Mike's eyes now were in hers then. It was a look more permanent for her though, and in those moments I can't help it, especially with my own dim reflection in the window glass, ready to rage. "C'mon, God." I didn't talk to him out loud, obviously. That's for crazy people or priests, and I'd like to think I'm neither. It was an inner-dialogue. Well, monologue really. It's always just me talking, but he hears it when I ask. He heard it that time, "C'mon God. Please. Just let her have an awesome day. Hell, you want to make an impression? Give her the best day, y'hear? It probably wouldn't take much. And you can just throw me your worst. Throw all the wrenches you can into my plan you can man. I dare you. I mean, I don't know how bad you could fuck my day up, I already got tickets to this madhouse dance party, but hey, bring it. I'm sure you've got a couple silly scenarios that might tickle your fancy. I'm ready. Just a good day. A great day. A smile and a look of wonder. Pure joy, for however long, yeah? But pure. The purest." And I watched her shrink in the distance as the train pulled out. She didn't see me. I was on my toes from then on though. Alert because that wasn't the first time I'd hucked that dare at him.
He's a wiley buggar, and he always inevitably gets me, and I'd find myself in a dill pickle. When that shit and fan meet, yeah it sucks, but I'll manage, and I can't help but smile back on our agreement. I like to think he's a man of his word. I know he is. And so now I find myself asking him again. Daring. Pleading. Begging him not to take dear Drew from this Earth just yet. He's too young. Too lively. Too kind and caring. And Lord knows (pardon the cliche) we don't have enough of his type down here. He's fighting, I'm sure. Let him fight, but let him win. If anyone deserves it, it's him. Shit, I'm just a shadow in comparison, so give me your worst. Your worstest. Today. Tomorrow. Through the week. Fuck it, I'm down. I'll trudge through some shit, no worries. Get a good laugh out of it, if that helps. Bring it, bring it, bring it, bring it. I'm ready, and I'm willing.
We're off to Tibidabo and the old amusement park and the church on the hill. Max and Grant put their arms around Mike. "We'll light a candle for him at the church, a'ight?" says Grant.
"Yeah... Let's do that." Mike's still a way's away.
I give his shoulder a good firm squeeze and a shake as we enter the station, "He's gonna be fine, man." Then we hop the turnstiles and when we get to the platform it's empty, and the train's just left, the last car making the first turn down the track. The next one won't be here for twenty minutes. Ha. Thank you. Keep it coming.
"Fuck. Really? What a day." So succinct Max.
