The jackass was later than usual. I must specify than usual because the jackass (whose legal name was Dylan) rarely arrived at our agreed upon time. Punctuality was not a word in his repertoire (Hell, I doubt “repertoire” was a word in Dylan’s repertoire), but I still found myself growing anxious as the hours ticked away without so much as a text.
I was never one to worry when it came to Dylan’s attendance; my friend maneuvered through life like a cartoon character, stumbling from one hilarious encounter to the next, surviving by the skin of his teeth, and always arriving just before the credits rolled. Dylan was a boy of many adventures, and I appreciated being a part of any of them without necessarily being a member of all of them. In this instance, however, there would be no chance of tomorrow. Tonight might never happen again.
His car screeched to a halt in front of my house at about the same instant that his here text appeared on my phone. Classic Dylan. I ran out to his car amidst a gentle, summer breeze that smelled of bountiful flora and bygone days.
“Better late than never,” Dylan apologized unapologetically. Actually, scratch that; he probably said nothing of the sort, but time and distance tend to cloud the mind until all we’re left with are bite-sized memories. Memories which serve to represent emotions rather than maintain historical accuracy. I just remember that Dylan had me laughing from the get-go—a feat he always managed to accomplish—and I no longer cared about his tardiness.
Did I mention we were getting coffee? No? Well, that’s probably because the activity was arbitrary and unmemorable.
Don’t ask me why, but adults are generally incapable of spending time together unless there is a goal to the encounter. I always remember this one line from the movie American Psycho, when Patrick Bateman’s colleague proclaims, “I’m not really hungry…I’d just like to have a reservation.” Dylan and I had reached a point in our lives where we felt much the same, no longer content to aimlessly ride our bicycles down the sparse streets of Hudson. High School was behind us, and we had both become much older than we ever intended. Dylan especially.
We drove to a Dunkin Donuts on the other side of town, desperate to prolong the inevitable. The exact details have grown foggy, but I imagine we discussed all manner of things, laughing at memories long since passed. I doubt we allowed even a moment of silence, stuffing every second with stories and jokes because the next ten weeks would be void of either.
“Hey, take the long way home,” I probably requested.
We drove atop ground that did not belong to us. It had long ago been claimed by a Josh and Dylan who now existed only in our memories. Boyish, oversexed, overconfident runts who spent each summer immersed in their own nonsense, playing blissfully beneath a sun they believed would never set. I glanced out the passenger window as Dylan’s words flowed through me, and beyond the darkness I could see those two stupid kids keeping pace with us on their bicycles. Hyped up on hormones and addicted to caffeine, they rode without a destination in mind. Josh likely yelled at Dylan in his shrill, prepubescent voice:
“Bro, can you slow down?”—and Dylan would simply laugh his trademark, goofy cackle of a laugh and pedal all the faster. He liked to throw out both hands and flap his arms like a bird to add insult to injury. Josh might call Dylan a “fatass” and Dylan might label Josh a “cry baby”; boys have the strangest ways of showing their love.
Far from being a “fatass,” Dylan now sported a lean physique of ample muscle, having shed the excessive pounds of middle school through intense bodybuilding. He appeared at home in a tank top, brandishing a newfound confidence that he lacked in his younger years. He seemed altogether more capable. More adult. His physical and mental alterations had occurred simultaneously, and I had hardly noticed either change before the Dylan of my youth simply ceased to exist. I pondered what further alterations might transpire after Dylan traded in the tank top for a U.S. Navy uniform.
Our old middle school glided past my window, shrouded in darkness and void of life. It bore resemblance to a Civil War battlefield—a historic site that now preserved nothing more than cobwebs, memories, and ghosts of my past. Distant phantoms with familiar faces moseyed around the property, reenacting the Battle of Puberty that had once required so much of my attention. I could almost hear our childish laughter exploding from the classroom windows, but the shadowy building maneuvered into my rearview mirror before I could reclaim what was beyond my reach.
“Bro,” I said, “remember that time Andrew became hysterical after you spit in his eye?”
“It was a spitting war!” he rebutted, as if such an activity were common and need no further explanation. “Andrew started it, too! I somehow manage to get a lucky shot right into his eye, and he starts crying like I physically assaulted him.”
“Oh, it burns,” I remarked, mimicking our dear friend, and Dylan responded with the trademark, goofy laugh to which he alone owned the patent. This story likely spawned a million more just like it, for tales showcasing our embarrassing childhoods were never in short supply.
“Goddamn. Those really were the good ole days, weren’t they?”
We sped down winding, purposeless roads with names that neither of us recognized. Roads we once observed behind handlebars rather than a windshield. Endless roads that once represented how long the journey before us would feel. Wide, curving roads that never allowed us to predict what might lay around the next turn. Roads that, if we stayed on them long enough, would eventually lead us right out of Hudson and over an uncertain horizon. Dylan was destined to depart on such a road tomorrow morning, maintaining his course until he wound up at some bootcamp in Illinois. I did not know when I would see him again, but I knew that these roads would feel different upon his return. That night, however, we just drove around aimlessly.
“Dylan, where the hell are we going?” I should have asked.
I cried when he dropped me off at my house. Definitely. No probably or maybe or likely about it. I bawled my eyes out just as Andrew had when we were 14—coincidentally, both emotional episodes were triggered by Dylan. Weeping was a rarity for me, generally allowed only after breakups and especially sad movie endings. I suppose exiting Dylan’s car felt akin to the latter. The credits were rolling. The curtains were closing. The party was over.
I remember hugging him as if I were holding onto the edge of a cliff, desperately clinging onto something that was slipping from my grasp. Dylan’s departure signified an end to bicycle rides and spitting wars and endless summer days and goofy, trademark laughter and all manner of other things that made my youth worthwhile. He assured me that he would return in no time at all, but I understood even then that the Josh and Dylan of tonight would disappear just as suddenly as the Josh and Dylan of yesterday once had. Still, I feigned optimism.
I gazed back at Dylan’s car right before he drove away, teardrops resting upon my reddened cheeks. Incredibly, I saw myself still sitting in his passenger seat—a part of myself that no longer belonged to me. A part of myself that would remain forever in Hudson. He and Dylan drove off into the night, disappearing into an impenetrable sheet of blackness, leaving me alone in my driveway.
—
Shutterstock image
