He was heavier than I may have guessed- almost lifeless, save the small, weak breaths pushing drool onto my shoulder and a slight squeeze that may've, under different circumstances, been construed as a hug. There was still a faint puke smell about him. The little guy was in such a bad way I didn't see a good way to brush his teeth that wouldn't risk him choking, so I let him be. Guilt was everywhere, in the sounds of the toilet, in the grout, hanging on the shower door... I held him steady with my free hand and, using my shoulder, turned the hotel room's light off, laid him on the bed. I untied and took his shoes off. He immediately rolled over from his back to his side, and I sat down in one of the hotel chairs, spinning, watching the shadows of his face move with the changing light of the television.



I had come to realize that it hadn't been a very inspired decision, giving an eleven year-old fruit-flavored malt liquor, but, at inception, it was the idea of ideas. It had happened very much in the moment, seeing that Mike's Hard Lemonade sixpack, haloed in light of the gas station's refridgerator door, seemed like destiny- But the night at that point, hours upon hours ago, was on a vastly different course. Danny was a different kind of kid, and maybe through my inexperience with his type in general, I had given him more credit than he deserved. At his best, he carried himself better than most of my old friends back in Hunter's Terrace that were over twice his age- but youth has its inconsistencies. For example, in hindsight, I should have introduced the concept of moderation- He just drank the shit entirely too fast, gaining speed as he became accustomed to the taste. At one point, while I took a quick piss break, couldn't have been longer than 45 seconds, I swear a newly opened bottled had been replaced with another, and his awkward smile with another too... a tad bit slantless than the one before.



From the beginning the mission had been to keep him entertained, away from the creeping doubt of his split-second decision, hopping into my car at that Arby's and running away from his Rockwellian life- at that fleeting moment when he happened to feel like it. The day had been kind of cool before the drinking meltdown and, beyond the original awkwardness and a short stint after the nunchuck incident, we got along pretty well. In a strange way I had been relieved to find a road buddy, in and of whatever fashion. It had gotten kind of strange on the road alone. What better way to consecrate a new friendship than with some alcohol? I was drowning in the knowledge that this had been a horrible mistake. I looked at my beer on the nightstand, half-full, and had no desire to drink it. It was hitting me. It was pounding at my skull.