In Blue and Gold again. Just me and Boris this time. It had been hard since Jo-Jo'd left for Australia. Especially since it meant it was over with Pete, just at it had been over with Boris. Now she'd left the two boys to sort it all out for themselves and, well, you wonder who's problem it really was.
Boris and I grab 2 'Dirty Hipster's and slide into a booth. We down the shots of jaeger and sip our PBRs. He breaks into it, telling me things you can expect, like I hate fucking Pete, and I hate fucking Jo, when I know and he knows he's gonna miss them both. We were all so close. But right now, the pain is fresh, like an open sore. And there isn't much I can do to heal it for him. It's the sort of thing you need to allow to just breathe, crust over. Boris is resiliant.
He's flicking matches. Lighting them and flicking them so the flare blasts in the passing moment, but in the end, it's a charred strip of cardboard. I don't know if Boris is trying to make someone feel his pain, per se, or what even just the action means, or satisfies. But he's flicking them over my head, never at the same angle, as if there are some terrible chords in his head, and that depsite the changes he can't master any melody. His words reflect that, moving around in circles, unsure of where to end or begin. He is a man decentered. But he needs to speak, to share. I sit silent, eye to eye with him, forget about attempting to help him make any sense of it all.
One match flies over and doesn't go out. The girls behind us all start yelling and shouting, and I just them realize that someone's product has just caught fire. I look at Boris and he's still lost in himself, didn't even notice. He'd been drinking all day so, granted, he was sloshed. Anyway, I grab his arm and drag him out of there. I took a quick glance, and it was already put out, but we didnt need to be there for the after.
We get outside and I hope those girls have no idea what we looked like because we're pretty much regulars there - as regular as you can be in Alphabet City. Boris has no idea what's going on and I just keep pushing him forward. He starts to kick the garbage bags on the side of the street, and when that's not enough, he starts picking them up and flinging them across the street. That area is pretty deserted when it comes to cars, but still, this ain't good for anybody. Though Boris is a twig compared to me, he's strangely strong when he's this far gone, and Boris is gone, boy.
Some guy steps out of his store, who knows what he's still doing there at near 1 AM, but he starts yammering about how he's gonna get a ticket for what Boris is doing, bout how he's gonna fuck him up, no wait better yet, he's gonna get the cop he knows who usually walks through the park. He's off, and Boris, with perfect timing, exhausted, collapses in my arms. Dead weight. And I resign myself to the fact that tonight, Boris and I are getting booked.