The knocking is muffledbut grows louder when the second round of it starts up. I set aside my sketchpad and rise to open my bedroom door. The kitchen is dark, but when I flick the light on, the cock clock reads three in the morning. I glance at Johnny’s and Cliff’s doors before answering the knock. Johnny’s door is open and he isn’t in it. And Cliff’s is closed, which means he’s snoring behind it.
Two more raps on the door register as I open it.
Taber is standing on the other side, looking as tired as I feel, but fully dressed and wearing his wool coat and contrasting snowflakes in his dark hair. “Sorry, man, but Johnny is passed out inside the front door at the foot of the stairs. You wanna give me a hand and we’ll carry him up? I tried to wake him, but he wouldn’t budge.”
I think most residents who have been here for a while know Johnny is a drunk based on his absence. It’s never been on full display like this, at least not since I’ve lived here. He either stays somewhere else, or he manages to make it upstairs and into his bed before he passes out. Something about him outing himself with such a grand gesture makes me embarrassed for him.
“Yeah, let me grab my shoes.”
Taber waits in the hall while I slip them on and when I return, he asks, “This happen often?”
“The drinking or the passing out?” I question, not wanting to answer.
“Both?” He shrugs and paired with softness in his voice it screams compassion.
Which prompts me to answer, “The drinking is daily. The passing out downstairs on the floor isn’t.”
He nods and licks his lips like he’s thinking as we walk down the final flight of stairs.
“Jesus,” I say under my breath. “He’s lucky he wasn’t on his back or he could’ve died.” He’s facedown. Vomit on the floorboards is pooled around, and under, his face.
Taber sighs sadly and agrees. “Yup.”
“You take his feet, I’ll take the top half,” I say, cringing at the sight. And the smell.
“I appreciate that,” Taber says with his trademark grin.
We hoist his deadweight and make it up the first flight before we have to stop and put him down to adjust our grip. We’re both dragging in air loudly, exertion taking its toll.
“I should probably quit smoking. Moving a dead body is exhausting. I could never be a serial killer,” Taber jokes quietly.
I laugh on the inside, but it doesn’t make it out. I’m relieved he’s joking instead of judging, it’s making all of this easier to deal with. “Me too.”
Final flight assailed, I lead us into his bedroom where we put him on his bed, take off his coat, and roll him over on his belly in case he gets sick again. Taber stuffs his hands in his pockets and lingers for a few seconds like he’s trying to decide what the next move should be.
“I’ll take it from here.” I’m not good at reassuring, but I’m trying my best.
“Sorry I had to wake you,” he apologizes.
“You didn’t. I don’t sleep much. Insomnia,” I explain.
He looks me over like he wants to say something, but he stops short and I’m left with a contemplative, “Good luck, Toby,” instead. I don’t know if he’s talking about Johnny, my insomnia, or something else altogether.
I nod and he leaves.
Cleaning up Johnny, the puke downstairs, and myself takes another half hour.
I doze for two hours before my alarm goes off to wake me for school.
Johnny’s still asleep when I leave and I’m grateful because I don’t want to have to face him and tell him what happened if and when he asks.
He probably won’t because avoidance is our game.
He’s getting even better at avoiding life and everything in it than I am.
That’s quite a feat.
Chapter Eleven
