“I do. I did love it. Just fucking take it. I want you to take it from me.” I draped the coat over his shoulder.

“Man, you’re not dying. You’ll be back.” He tossed the coat to me. I wanted to cry because he thought I was drunk (which was true) and being maudlin and generous but I wasn’t being generous. Walter, who’d been nothing but a solid friend, a good guy, did not deserve what I was trying to put on him. No one did.

I still tried to give it to him again. Walter refused. Eventually he jumped back into the waiting cab. I watched him drive away. He moved to North Carolina the following summer.

I left my jacket on the sidewalk. I let it go and it splatted, and maybe I tried stirring it to life with a hesitant toe in its water. I left the thing out there overnight and in the morning the jacket was gone and there was a puddle on the pavement in its place. (That’s how I remember it anyway.)

That next day I brought all my packed-up shit to my mother’s house in Beverly.

You stole my camera.

Can’t say I was happy you tore the dresser out of the wall either. It was a conversation piece. Or to quote a famous filmic philosopher, it really tied the room together. So, yeah, during your freak-out you trashed my dresser and my apartment, but stealing my camera hurt. That was low. That was personal.

You’re lucky I’m a forgiving person and lucky I remain a true friend. All I’ve ever wanted is to help you.

When I put the rock-star photo inside your snazzy leather jacket, I found a prescription bottle. I couldn’t tell what the prescription was for. The label was ripped off and I couldn’t open it and look inside while we were talking, not that I would’ve known what I was looking at. I’m guessing it was Percocet or maybe even oxycodone. Whatever it was couldn’t have been good for your heart or your sleeping problems. I know you were in tremendous back pain, and I don’t blame you if you were self-medicating. I’m guessing you didn’t have good health insurance or any health insurance at that point.

You weren’t moving so well, and you were pallid, drained, and slurring even before we drank at my place. It took a lot for me to come up to you after your Antigone show and I was truly happy to be hanging out with you again. But, if I can be frank, I was also scared by your battered and compromised condition, especially on the second night of your visit. I didn’t know what to do, so I pretended your problems weren’t that bad and would handle themselves.