When Reality Thins
I need something to wash down this lump in my throat. Premature grief is a familiar flavor but it burns my tongue just the same. All of my best friends are moving away at once, and I can barely stand the thought of it.
This may be our last time together before you move to the coast, thousands of miles away from here. We’ve spent most of our post-college hangouts out on the streets, seeking adventure in our home city in the most unsuspecting of places. Tonight, you decide it may be best to stay in and reminisce over those THC seltzers that once dissolved the sensation in my forearms.
Around nine at night, we hit up a local gas station whose lone employee, a kid our age, declines our behind-the-counter request.
“I’m not serving that sugary crap to another customer. Please, have some class.”
You turn down his array of respiratory offers, insisting on splitting a simple can of lemon cannabis seltzer. We’re not looking for anything crazy. Just a little something to enjoy the storm. Rolling his eyes, the cashier relents but slides something else across the counter with your purchase: a blue gummy packaged without a label.
“50 mg, on the house,” he murmurs. “Hopefully you’ll change your mind about those gross drinks.”
“Who’s that?” I blurt, pointing to a puffy sticker of a woman taped to the receipt printer.
You throw a quizzical glance in my direction but, without missing a beat, the cashier answers, “Oh, that’s Janet. She works the night shift with me.”
“Oh.”
He gestures to a dime-sized figure of Godzilla taped to his computer monitor. “Zilla closes with us, too.”
“Oh.”
Pulling out of the parking lot, you poke the mystery gummy’s crinkly packaging.
“I swear, it always happens when we’re together,” you laugh.
I’m distracted by lightning ripping through sunset-tinged cumulonimbus clouds.
“What happens?”
“Something about our combined presence opens up a portal to a different realm.” At a stop sign, you turn to look at me. “Haven’t you noticed?”
***
TWELVE MONTHS PRIOR
On a whim, you invite me to crash the annual naked bike parade and, I mean, okay. Sounds cursed. I’m down with no further inquiries, fully clothed with no knowledge of the event other than its title. Stopped at an intersection, we fear we may have missed it. Spontaneous decisions cause varied outcomes. A shout alerts us to the incoming mob, a stampede of nude cyclists pedaling through a symphony of honks and hollers.
That night, the street metamorphosizes into a block party crammed with glittery tits and glow-in-the-dark dicks. The experience of strolling fully clothed, odd ones out, chins pointed toward our shoes is nothing short of apocalyptic. Dancing among foggy psychedelic hues, we gracefully dodge flabby old fellows attempting to grind up on us.
***
SEVEN MONTHS PRIOR
Sharing one cup between two straws, you and I suck down a mystery drink called the MIND ERASER, which is just as obscure of a beverage as the nondescript menu advertises. The bartender chuckles when we ask what goes in such a concoction. She explains it more as a game than a drink. First person to finish your shared potion of liquor wins. Wins what? A wiped memory?
Neither of us wins because what goes down later that night is so remarkable that you’ll mention it at every outing to follow.
It’s 2 a.m. and, upstairs, Jesus Christ is boxing Santa Claus—literally, just two random Joes in a Christmas hat and a crown of thorns, duking it out with comically large boxing gloves. Winner gets to hand out presents. The real kicker? Neither Jesus nor Santa have ever been in a real-life fight before. What a letdown. With all of the hype leading up to this showdown, we expected at least a little bit of blood.
By the way, Jesus wins, if you can call it that.
***
THREE MONTHS PRIOR
It was a mistake inviting a date to the experimental open mic I promised I’d go to with you. We’re sardines crammed into a single room with limited seating, so I choose to plop down on the floor, dividing you and my date. He scoots closer, wedging himself against me in a way that both thrills and terrifies me. You are my crisscross-applesauce anchor I rely on to stay afloat.
“Don’t be afraid if things get weird,” I whisper to my date.
You add, “Strange things happen when I hang out with her.”
When a guy opens his act with a presentation on the swine flu, I fear we may have jinxed ourselves.
“Before we begin, I’d like to give a heads up,” the presenter warns the audience. “There will be a live animal joining us. You are welcome to pet it and, if you are brave enough, feed it during the demonstration. There are gloves and a bucket of treats in the front. One person at a time, please.”
My date stifles a laugh. You squirm at the thought of a pig running loose on the premises, but what comes barreling out behind the curtain on all fours is a human in a hog mask.
***
TWO MONTHS PRIOR
On the first night of pride month, the queer club dishes out banger after banger. You and I are sandwiched on a dance floor pulsing in rainbow hues. We hit it off with two sexually ambiguous men who match our energy and play along with our jests. You find it silly that they reward your dance moves with rolled-up dollar bills tucked behind their ears. It isn’t until the following morning that your brother educates you on its meaning.
One of these two—wearing a notable Kum & Go shirt, leather blazer, and brilliant white pants combo—tells us, “When the beat drops, clear the dance floor for me.”
We expect a breakdance surprise, but his delivery turns out to be far more complex. Busting out with slavic squat and kicks, the man whirls around, tears off his pants, and tosses them in one swift motion. The club is too busy squealing about the bedazzled briefs underneath to notice the man’s pants snagged on a ceiling light.
Some stranger lifts you on their shoulders like you weigh nothing. Once you retrieve the pants, you drop to a kneel and return them the way a knight would present a sword.
***
ONE MONTH PRIOR
Before you leave me to chase your dreams on the coast, we take a drive through our rural midwestern woods, smitten by firefly glitter. The car in front of us hugs a corner and vanishes straight into gravel dust. A ghost?
***
NOW
You’re speaking. I know you are, but your voice is already thousands of miles away. I hold my breath, urging what blur my eyes make of your figure to ground me.
“Before I go, I want to end on a good note,” you say wistfully, watching an orange moon creep out behind the storm clouds. “What are three of your favorite things we’ve done?”
“I, um.” My tongue is a wad of gum obstructing my breathing. “There are so many things.”
Whatever unlabeled gummy that gas station employee slipped us is three times the strength of the MIND ERASER concoction. So powerful that I lose the ability to chew. So potent that I lose the ability to articulate how much I’ll miss you. I swallow another gulp of seltzer to wash down the lump in my throat. Farewells are the hardest with a history as rich as ours.
