| Every night before I go to sleep, I re-inflate my borrowed air mattress and readjust the pile of blankets on top of it in hopes of getting a decent nights sleep. Those only come after large amounts of liquor though, and there's no chance of getting that anymore since seven dollars is all that separates me from begging for change on the corner and asking every person on the street for cigarettes. I briefly knew this guy who I gave my phone number to while drunk, and he would call me at odd hours of the day and ask me if I had any cigarettes, and if I said yes, would hang up the phone and be at my house within five minutes. Maro and I spent much time trying to figure out what his deal was, and after careful consideration, I decided he was homeless. One night he took me to a "party" his friends friend was having, and while waiting in the Braintree T station, he changed his shirt four times. I only ever saw him wearing those four shirts and always, the same pair of jeans. The party turned out to be us sitting in this attic above a garage and keeping quiet so we wouldn't wake up anyone's parents. We drank cheap wine out of a jug while these 25 year olds who still lived at home showed off their German engineered bong. After I got mono, he would still call me and I would be too sick to get out of bed. Eventually, he stopped, but over christmas break he'd try to call from someone's cell phone, and I'd never answer. It got to the point where he kind of scared me. Maro once heard him talking to a friend on my phone, and the girl was saying that ever since he stopped taking his medicine, he'd been a different person. He ruined our plans that night, like he always did. Now when I look back on the few months I knew him, and almost all the events that occured at 16 Westland Avenue, I get the feeling that I was not a part of it, just an audience for someone who was telling a mildly bizarre but still boring story. My days here feel somewhat the same. I am a ghost. |
