A story, then. A New Years Eve several years ago, with an old friend from high school. I guess I hadn’t hung out with him in awhile — and it was New Year’s, we were in Atlantic City, we had pain an exorbitant amount of money for a limousine to pick us up and drive us back to his – my friend’s, not the limo driver’s – house in the Philadelphia suburbs.
So maybe I was encouraging him. I was drinking — I don’t know — four drinks, maybe five. The free champagne they gave out at midnight. Somewhere halfway through this evening — after midnight, but before the concert was over — my friend begins to lose the plot. Not exactly sure what is going on. He’s not exactly sure. Me, I assume he’s blacked out — which seems strange — four or five drinks?
By the time we left, he was no help whatsoever. I had to give directions to the limo driver to drive us through these dark black suburban roads back to his house. He could barely walk. Had to walk him in. I left him in his downstairs bathroom. Let him sleep it off.
Next morning, we learn that after I left him, my friend had decided to take a walk around his back yard. He did make it back in — but left the back door unlocked and tracked mud all over the kitchen.
How old were we? Twenty four? Twenty five? The next day his mother asked me if I had any idea what happened. I had an idea — but no knowledge.
So that was that. Alcoholism? Maybe. Maybe for sure. What’s my responsibility in all this? I don’t know.
That was years ago.