One day, all my friends come over to cry.
I have a couch, two chairs, a television, and a case of beer in the refrigerator. The cheap stuff.
My house is small, but they all live in apartments. Except for Carl. Carl sleeps in his car and spends the day at the library.
Jerry’s the first person to show up. He’s a few minutes early. His knock is soft. He’s a quiet, shy kind of person. I normally call him Jer-Bear but he seems too serious tonight. I pat him on a narrow shoulder and say, “Come in, man. Have a seat. Want a beer?”
“Nah,” he says. “I’m not drinking.” This makes it sound like he’s had a problem with it in the past.
Jerry sits delicately on the couch and buries his face in his hands.
I stand by the door and occasionally glance out the window.
Carl pulls up and lumbers out of his car.
I surprise him by opening the door before he can knock.
He’s already crying.
Don is the next one to arrive. I’m in the kitchen getting beer for Carl and myself so Jerry lets him in.
“Wanna beer?” I call to Don.
“Sure. I guess,” he says.
I bring the three beers into the living room. It’s challenging.
Don stands beside the door, his shoulders slumped.
“I brought chips,” he says.
The bag is clutched in his hand, dangling down by his knees. It’s a brand I’ve never heard of before.
“Thanks, man. Sit wherever.”
He sits heavily in the chair closest to the door.
“I passed Katrina on the way,” he says. “She had to stop to tie her shoes.”
I look out the window in the door to see Katrina climb the steps to the porch.
For some reason, I don’t open the door. Maybe I don’t want to startle her. Maybe I want to watch her face as she knocks.
She knocks twice, slowly.
I open the door.
“Katrina,” I say.
“Yes,” she says.
“Wanna beer?”
“Yes, please. And some water.”
I go into the kitchen and get her beer out of the refrigerator. Getting the water is slightly confusing and more difficult than I would have thought.
By the time I get back into the living room, everyone is crying. Don has opened his bag of chips and started eating them. There are some crumbs on his thick lips. Katrina has taken the other chair, so I sit on the couch.
We all weep openly, some of us more dramatically than others. Occasionally one of the guys will stop crying to leer at Katrina, me included.
I turn the television on. Two fully clothed teenagers are on a couch making out while an older man sits in a simple wooden chair and takes notes.
I don’t change the channel.
A couple hours later, Don stands up and says, “Too heavy.”
He moves to the middle of the room and starts clapping. He jerks his body around and shouts “Whoo!” like he’s having a big time. But his movements are too forced and vicious and the whole thing is more terrifying than anything.
Katrina says she feels nervous and leaves.
We spend the rest of the evening drinking beers, passing Don’s bag of chips around, and watching the television, the show never changing.
Don is the next to leave, followed shortly thereafter by Jerry.
Carl asks if I’d mind if he slept on the couch.
I do mind but tell him it’s okay, as long as he’s gone before I leave for work the next morning.
Before I go to bed, I look out my bedroom window.
The neighborhood is dark and quiet.
There isn’t a car on the road.
