Part two...sigh
Yeah, posted it really soon. Oh well.
“Just how drunk are you? ‘Cause I’ve seen you drunk, and you function…not too bad…”
“Too smashed to do anything but sit here. I can’t even sleep, it’s like my mind won’t shut off. I’m just gonna ride it out and talk to you later.”
“You have a lot on your mind?”
Wow, Tim finished a sentence. A whole thought, even- that’s rare, even when he’s talking to me. Not that he’s stupid, far from it. Usually he’s like that brilliant but manic kid with ADD who will throw out anything in his head, until he’s got a pile of half-formed ideas and no direction. That’s where I usually come in, to help him sift through them. But now, Tim’s playing the concerned adult to my manic child- I swear, he almost sounded like my mom for a second. That’s pretty fucking sobering.
“Yeah, I guess I do.”
“Well…fuck, why didn’t you tell me? You’re…okay, right? I mean, if you need it, we can hold off on this for a while…” Tim sounds like he’s talking a suicide out of jumping off a bridge. I’d stop to picture this irony more fully, only my head feels like it’s going to explode.
“Tim, Jesus! Calm down, I’m fine.”
“You’re fine? Okay, that was the least convincing thing you could tell me. If you’re going to lie, make it good.”
Damn, he is making sense. “I forgot, Tim, you’ve got a built-in bullshit detector.”
I can almost hear him smile.
“Yeah.” There’s a pause- he seems to be thinking. “Danny, stay where you are, okay?”
“I was planning on it.”
“Good…try to sleep.”
“Uh huh.” I’m feeling tired already. I’ll just close my eyes, Tim won’t notice…
“If I see you’re asleep, I’ll just…leave you alone. Ok? Bye.”
“Huh?” What did he mean by that?
Click.
Oh well……
I’m disturbed (more so than usual) by a knock at the door. I wake, to the hideous realization that I’ve been lying facedown in a pile of my own drool. Well, this night keeps getting better and better…
Suddenly, I see who’s standing at my window, knocking to be let in. It’s Tim, and I’m not sure whether or not I expected him to be here. I didn’t think he’d actually come, did I?
But he’s here, pressing his pale face to the window like a wan but friendly ghoul. I grope my way over to the door and open it.
He eyes me nervously from behind his curtain of hair. “Hi…”
“What are you doing here?’ I must sound pretty pissed off, but I’m almost tempted to bury my face in that hair and hug him till he turns blue. I really didn’t want to be alone tonight.
“Well…I just thought I’d come by, and…you know...”
“Check up on me?” I’m grinning now- I just noticed that Tim’s got a grocery bag with him. “What’s that?”
“The bag? Just some stuff. It always works for me, when I’m…”
“Blotto.”
“You know, when I need to calm down. He looks at his feet- my god, did he just giggle? Never mind, his head pokes up again and his eyes meet mine. “Can I come in?”
“Sure. Sorry…I didn’t mean to bite your head off there.”
He shrugs. “It’s nothing.” Tim walks ahead of me and goes into the kitchen. “Ohhhhkaaaaaayyyy…pots? Are there any?” He’s pulling random stuff out of drawers, generally fudging his way around, until he comes to the cupboard behind him and pulls out a medium sized pot, the kind you’d use for soup. “I guess this is good. I mean, I own only one pot- it’s kind of like this.”
“One pot? Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.” I suppress a smile at the thought of little Tim burning the Burton family home to the ground in some sort of stove or toaster-related mishap.
Tim busies himself by putting the pot on the counter and filling it with hot water from the sink.
He goes over to the grocery bag and pulls out a cardboard box, which he rips open.
“What are you making?” I ask. “Wait…Instant Mashed Potatoes?”
“Yeah.”
“Why mashed potatoes?”
Tim looks vaguely around the room, as if the answer were written on my wall. “I don’t know, I just like them. Like, eating them or when I watch people make them…. it’s kind of nice. It helps me relax, I guess.” He’s stirring the white, lumpy mixture as he expounds on the joy of potatoes, gazing into the hypnotic dance of potato flake and wooden spoon. “It looks done, wanna look?”
“Don’t you have to boil them or something?”
“I don’t know. I just…you know, I always do it like this and it turns out okay.” He holds out the pot so I can see for myself. The mixture is odorless, off-white in color. It’s a bit runnier than your school lunch variety mash.
Tim wiggles the pot at me. “Taste it. See if it’s good.”
I dip my finger in and take a taste. Mmm, liquefied cardboard. “It’s….good. Thanks, Tim.”
Tim beams. “Great. You mind if I have some too? ”
“Take all you want, man.” Yeah, so I don’t have to eat it.
I get out a bowl for myself and one for Tim. We’re sitting at my kitchen table, with a lone light above us. Tim’s not even using his bowl; he’s eating out of the pot. I’m drinking the coffee I just made out of a very realistic skull mug.
Yep, we’re normal as normal can be. So who’s gonna be the one to make this little scene even weirder? Tim. He reaches into the grocery bag and pulls out…
Mrs. Butterworth. He squeezes her sweet syrupy fluids into the pot of potatoes.
“Tim…Syrup.”
“Yup.”
“You usually eat it that way?”
“Uh-huh.” He stirs it and shyly asks, “Want some? It’s really good.”
“How’s it taste?”
“Ummmmm, kinda like…potato-y oatmeal.”
“Do tell.”
“It’s better than it sounds.” He sits there, with this deer in the headlights look; Mrs. B in one hand and a dripping spoon in the other. Suddenly, he’s the little kid again.
“Okay, I’ll try it.” He hands it over, and it’s oddly comforting. Soft , warm, and sweet.
Not unlike Tim, once he lets his guard down.
“Tim?”
He puts a lock of hair behind his ear and looks over at me. “Yeah?”
“Thanks for coming over. I needed…this.”
“No problem.” He crosses his arms, squeezing himself tight as he gives me a shy little smile. He’s hugging himself. What would he do if I put my arms around him?