** Strobe **

"Ma hotdog! Wassssuuppp…"

"Hey tater – so… is she down?"

"Hold on… can’t hear you…" shuffling in the background, gunfire… what was that, an AK? Muffled silence. "…kay… what now?"

"Is she down?"

"Yeah, thank God. She’s bein a beastie," chuckles.

"Come upstairs… – I want to show you something."

Doesn’t wait. Hangs up the phone – paces the living room. Rubs the bags under her eyes.

The day was beautiful – every trace of the night before wiped out by etch-a-sketch birdsong. Typical post-storm sunshine – crisp air, a warm sidewalk, the grass glittering with dew.

Walks over to the balcony – stares out the window. Empty bottles fill the iron table – Jack. Malibu. The Captain. God – was that all from last night? Scans the mess – sees it – right where it landed – the sun shining off what was left of the bottom half of the mug. Slivers sparkle like twinkling lights – the kind her mom hangs like icicles from the eaves at Christmas. The fuck am I doing… Only five left now. Used to be eight – filled the cupboard. Five will leave a gap. Three empty spaces. Three holes tha- Stops herself – get the fuck over it. You can get more, fuckin freak.

Saturday night had started out like any other – music, beer pong, the six of them – together. Started raining so they moved it inside – she laughed when Tater broke out the hard stuff. Jack started flowing. They polished off the rum. Invited the Captain to play. Challenged each other to Wii bowling. Baseball. Made eachother’s Mii. 

The rain started coming down in sheets.

They didn’t care – Hotdog and Tater. Indestructable.

Mr. Tater called it a night around one. Said he needed to get her into bed. Walked her downstairs.

An hour later she got the call. Woke her up – head spinning, mouth dry, arms like spaghetti. Choked out a grunt – what the fuck man.

"It’s Tre – she’s gone and you have to-"

Who? Sits up. Stands. Looks for pants – finds them in a pile at the foot of the bed.

"… said she was gonna go use again. I can’t go – I have the baby."

"Wait – who is this?" Adjusts her eyes – where’s my fuckin glasses…

"It’s Tre. You have to find her… she’s fuckin drunk and she left and I ca-"

Thunder shakes the windows  – flash of light throws a strobe into the room. Sees her glasses on the nightstand.

"I can’t hear you – who?"

"It’s Tre! She left – she’s lookin for shit – I have the baby. You have to go after her now!"

Doesn’t remember doing it – pulling on her pants. Grabbing a shirt. Jumping into her slippers. Just that she’s running – soaking wet in the pouring rain – phone to her ear. Why the fuck am I running? Didn’t think to grab the keys. Just started running. Slippers kick up fistfulls of mud and slush – cover her legs in the slime of Riverside. Lungs on fire. Sobs escaping through her clenched teeth. Glasses spotted like the plague.

Magnolia is errie – this time of night. Morning. It ate her. This street fuckin ate her.

Remembers the flash of light, the barreling of thunder – like a Mac truck splitting open the side of a concrete wall – seeing her there. Head hung low. Hoodie pulled tight around her face. Walking with the determined step of a girl – lost – destination in mind but no clue how to get there from here. God she looks so small.

"Tater!" running. Splashing. "Tater! What the fuck are you doing!"

Another flash of light and they’re home again. Time warp. Told Tre she’d bring her back down – I just need a minute with her.

And then they sit there – on her blacony. Rain coming at them from the side – covert. Hotdog and Tater. Indestructable. Steam rising up from their mugs – black coffee. Like tar. Fuckin tar, really?

"So… what the fuck. What the fuck were you doing?"

"Nothing – I just needed to get out."

"Don’t fuckin lie to me Tater. It’s 2:00 in the fuckin morning. I’m soaking wet. What…. were you… what – you wanna go get fucked up on shit? Is that it?"

Nothing. She’s crying now. Wipes her nose – thanks the rain for the camouflage.

"Tater." She waits – holds the gaze of her friend’s spanish eyes. Ocean blue. The kind of blue she could drown in – never finding the bottom. "Were you looking for heroin?"

It’s not something she ever thought she’d have to hear – her best friend telling her she wanted to die. Listening to her beg for it – wanting the needle more than her own child, her husband. An overdose would do it, she said. One last high – just one. Ride the waves out until there were only empty eyes – nothing left. Not my friend. Nothing.

"I know he’d take care of her. And you’d help him. You and cupcake. He’s a good father. They don’t need me… I can’t do this anymore."

There’s no right thing to say. Never. Nothing. They sat there for hours. Talking. Reasoning. Pleading. Crying. Listening. Screaming. Laughing. Sobbing. Shaking. Smoking. Convincing.

"You don’t know Hotdog. You don’t know what it’s like. You’ve never been here."

It hurt when she said it – this friend, her best friend that knew so little about her. It was time to call it a night. The rain has stopped – the sky all cried out. They hugged goodbye and she walked her back downstairs.

Saturday night ended unlike any other.

The front door opened then, startling her back to here. Right now. Blinked. Forced a smile. 

"Wassuupp ma nigga…" she sang. Plopped down on the couch. Smiled. "Where’s your ol’ man?"

"He’s um…" what the fuck. Really? "… he’s helping Mighty Mouse with his car. Changing his alternator… or something. Hey – I wanted to show you these…"  walks over to the kitchen table. Grabs a stack of old journals. Hesitates before bringing them over – setting them in front of her friend.

"What are these…?" she asks, thumbing through the first couple, pulling one out. Composition style. Covered in duct tape. Circa 2004.

"My journals. Some of them. I wanted you to read them… you know?" She looks at her friend then – searches for recognition. Understanding. Don’t make me say it.

"Why… I mean… yeah, I’ll read them. But why?" Drops 2004. Picks up 1998 – an old pocket sized leather number, embroidered flowers. Drops it.

"Because. Last night… I mean – when you said…" she hesitates. Watches as Tater picks up the marble composition notebook. Would know that year, any day. 2002. Permanently creased in half. Back cover torn off. Water damaged. Through hell and back. Watches her flatten the stubborn pages, flips through. Looking but not seeing. Holds her breath. That’s it. That’s the one. Tater tosses it aside – the pages bouncing back, tucking inside of themselves. Lets out air. "… you said that I’ve never been there. But you’re wrong…"

"Look," Tater stands, "I’m gonna bake some bread – you like banana, right? Cupcake does – I know that. And then later you wanna go to the market with me?" Walks over to the front door. "I think I’ll make sweedish meatballs for dinner. The boys like those. You have any of your veggie patties?"

Veggie patties? Still sitting there, her legs tucked up beneath her. Takes it all in. The beautiful day. The empty bottles. Wet slippers in the entry. A heap of journals in the center of the living room floor. Tater’s smile, hand on the knob. She doesn’t want to know. Doesn’t want to remember.

"Yeah I have a couple." 

"Sweet. I’ll call you when she wakes up and we’ll go."

"Ok. I’ll be up here then – if you need me." Shifts. Looks at her friend. Shivers. "I love you Tater…"

Tater looks down. At the door. Turns the knob. "Yeah – Love you too, Hotdog." Disappears outside.

She stares at the door. At the journals. Feels… relieved. Angry. A little sad. You didn’t really want it, anyway. Not… really. Takes a deep breath. Loads the weight of the last fifteen years into her arms and walks them over to the bookshelf – puts away her past. Fingers the tattered spine of 2002. Pushes it further in – hidden. Grabs her coffee cup and heads into the kitchen.

Stands there. Remembering. Hands trembling. God you’re a fuckin freak! Smashes number five in the sink – shards of porcelain chime against stainless steel. Leftover coffee trickles down the drain.

Four is better…