failure iii

I go outside to smoke a cigarette. The air is cold and I shiver with each drag. Standing in front of the dorm, I see an ambulance’s lights flashing like slaps in the face.

Some guy is wheeled out on a stretcher. His quivering body has been restrained by thick straps that pin him down. A girl, who looks like she could still be in high school, follows franticly behind the two EMT workers that steer the stretcher. She’s probably his girlfriend. She sobs.

It’s an overdose; I’ll bet money on it. I’m guessing some bad acid or maybe ecstasy.  Poor guy. His girlfriend’s pretty attractive, though. I’m trying to remember the last time I’ve gotten laid. I count out on my fingers.

Jack comes outside and bums a cigarette off of me.  “I thought you quit,” he states, lighting up.

I shrug, “I’m trying.”

Jack blows smoke. “Aren’t we all?”

Jack asks me something.  There’s a light drizzle.  I’m really not listening until he asks another questions. Looking for audience participation.

After I nod in agreement, he asks, “So where have you been, man?”

I have to think for a moment. “Beer pong in this girl down the hall’s room.” My lungs hurt, tonight. I stare at the cigarette and secretly curse it.

“Kathy?” he assumes without confidence.

“That’s the one.”

“What do you think of her?” Jack seems suddenly interested.

I scratch at the stubble sprouting on my chin. “She’s a cool girl, I guess.”

I’m not overly interested. Been there. Done that.

Jack’s now nodding too, “Yeah.” There’s this pause before he casually informs me, “I think I’m going to try and hit it.”

I cough. The way he’s said this, something about him sickens me. Some people will stop at nothing. Kathy’s a nice girl. She at least deserves better than Jack.

He’s a womanizer.

He’s an alcoholic.

He uses people.

He has no respect for girls, whatsoever.  See: Womanizer.

He’s just like me. We are all the same.  This self-discovery pains me. I’d like to believe that I was a couple of steps above Jack, but he’s probably a better choice than I am.  He’s not quite at the same level of asshole.

“I told her that I’d teach her to play the guitar,” Jack’s still talking.

“You play the guitar?” I ask surprised.

“No,” he says, “but chicks dig musicians.”

I laugh. “But you don’t know how to play.”

“Right,” Jack doesn’t seem to notice the flaw in his plan.

“What are you going to when she comes over expecting you to teach her the guitar?” I’m still laughing.

“Have sex with her.”

I stop laughing. 

That son of a bitch, I think. Why tell me that? 

“Brilliant,” I lie as I stub out my cigarette.

“Thanks,” Jack boasts proudly. “Feel free to use it any time.”

It’s classless. The worst part is I will use it.

In the elevator back up to my floor, I can’t help but think about the kid in the ambulance from before. His face, a cold shade, shakes in my mind. And then his girlfriend: her face was wet and mortified, hurt and afraid.

It’s in her face that I find what it means to actually care for someone else. It’s fear. It’s that fear of losing some one that brings this feeling into focus. It’s a focus that only fear of death can bring. And it’s a pity that it could only be that way.

I could go to sleep, but it’s still pretty early. I decide to play another game of beer pong in Kathy’s room.

One game turns into five or six more. I think at one point it becomes vodka pong.

In the morning, I wake up lying in a bathtub on another floor. I can’t find my shirt anywhere and have to check to make sure I still have both my kidneys.

I do.

And I guess that this is failure.