I

We are both eighteen and in Roy’s dad’s finished basement. The tape stopped an hour ago, and we haven't been assed to flip it. It’s about one in the morning, and we just graduated high school earlier that day. 

I told my dad and my sister Tammy I’d be staying over at his for a few days. See, dad had offered to have him over, in a house that actually has some semblance of structure, but I told him Professor Angelo would be home this time.

He was not. He did not attend the ceremony, he wasn’t there after, and he wouldn’t be until the end of next month. He was staying in Lawrence, which isn’t far, but I guess too far to see his son’s graduation. So he wasn’t home. That is why Roy invited me over.

“Hey, Al?”

Roy takes a slow drag from a joint, holds it for a few, and passes it back to me.

“Thanks, Roy, I’m good,” I tell him. I’m already feeling it. My lungs burn and I feel like a kite on the moon. I think, if it gets any more intense, I’ll start losing it, so I don’t go any further.

“Suit yourself,” he says. “I’ll keep going. Had a question, anyway.”

He hands me another shot of 12 year scotch, from his dad’s liquor cabinet. I learned quickly it was never missed, nor ever noticed, but mysteriously frequently replaced. That said, I think I gotta pass on that, too. He shrugs when I put my hand up to decline, takes my shot, and then takes a swig directly from the bottle for good measure.

“What’d…” I start to ask. “Uh, what were you going to, y’know.”

“Well,” he says. “D’you believe in angels, Al?”

I laugh, and I say, “Dude, what?”

“You know. Something watching over you. Or someone, as might well be the case.”

I’m always amazed how he maintains composure. Maybe it’s ‘cuz he’s the smartest guy I know, and he can work in these conditions. Maybe it’s ‘cuz he’s fucked up all the goddamn time and his body is just used to it. Maybe he’s one of those Adult Children of Alcoholics types, or whatever that’s about.

“Uh, no,” I say. “Not really. Dad used to take me to church on Sundays, but he stopped, and it didn’t stick.”

Roy laughs, and says, “You don’t have to go to church to believe in anything, Al.”

“Well, Roy, do you?” I ask.

“Do I what? Believe in anything?”

“No,” I say, “no, no, no. Angels, I mean. D’you believe in angels?”

He sits, thoughtful, and says with uncomfortable finality: “I think we’re all being pulled along life by a big string. The causes and conditions that bring us together. It’s too much to be coincidence. Like-” and he gestures between us, “like you and me. Dad didn’t have to take on the U of Kansas offer. But he did. So we moved in next to you. So we met, and we’re here, in my dad’s basement, and you’re getting high for the first time in your life.”

There’s a pause, and then: I start laughing.

I want to tell him, ‘Come off it, Roy, it’s not that deep’. But something struck a weird chord in me. So I’m laughing.

“Seriously, Al,” he says with an easy smile on his face. “Think about it. Who’s pulling us on the track? Who’s the engine?”

“I think we’re the engine,” I say, laughter petering out. “Like, each of us, individually.”

“Like a car?” he asks.

“Yeah, like a car.”

“Too individualistic,” he says. “See, I think there’s something.”

“Like, a guardian angel?” I ask. “Roy, d’you have a guardian angel?”

I ask earnestly, and his expression falls when I do. 

“Well,” he says. Deadly serious. He almost looks scared. “Something like that.”

II

We’re both nineteen, and we are trespassing on the high school football field late in the evening.

Neither of us went to college right after graduating. Roy went straight to work at a local record shop. Smart as he is, he has no intention of pursuing higher education. It would be a shame if not for his shit grades. To be fair, he’ll be happier like this.

I thought about it myself, but I wanted some time to figure things out. I’ve since had my time, and I’ve figured it out. Even sent in applications. Roy knows, but what he doesn’t know is that I finally heard back.

It’s an old college in Connecticut, small and private. Liberal arts. I intend to major in English, or something broad like that. I applied for scholarships, and I suppose this attests to my GPA moreso than my actual smarts, but needless to say my dad won’t be paying for more than the food on my plate when I go.

It’s a sweet deal, yet something about this makes me feel horrible.

I hear a holler.

“Al! Head’s up!”

I snap out of my reverie and catch the football headed my way. Roy comes jogging towards me.

“Shit, Al, that almost knocked you out!” he says, panting for breath once he gets to me.

I toss him back the football, and say, “I’ll be fine, I’ll be fine.”

“Something on your mind?” he asks.

“No,” I lie, “not really. Just distracted, I guess.”

“Hey, that’s fine. I get it.”

“Roy, don’t yell so loud next time,” I say. “I don’t wanna get caught. We can be tried as adults, you know.”

“Al!” he laughs. “Live a little. We’re nineteen. What’re they gonna do?”

I shake my head.

“Anyway,” he continues. “Seriously. What’s on your mind?”

I dig deep, and sigh.

“Remember that thing you said?” I ask.

“What thing?”

He tosses me back the football.

“When we smoked together,” I say. “Graduation night.”

“Hm,” he says. “Don’t remember it.”

“You said something about fate, something like that.”

“Yeah?”

We’re further apart now, so I throw it back with decent spin. He catches.

“Yeah,” I say. “Something like, things happening for a reason, or whatever.”

“Checks out.”

“Well,” I say. “I think you're right. Sometimes, things happen for a reason.”

I say this, but I don’t say why I’m saying it. The reason twists and curls in my gut. It makes me feel awful.

He cocks his throwing arm back for a pass.

“Roy,” I say, arms hanging by my sides. “Can I go home?”

III

"Roy lost his job at the record shop."

Mickey laughs on the other end of the line.

"Seriously," I tell her. "Last week."

"Dang," she says, "That sucks. What's he gonna do?"

I prop my elbows on the kitchen table and say, “Beats me.”

“Al!” she says. “You guys are best buds. You should know him a little better.”

“Well, there’s another record store a few blocks down, maybe he can try there.”

I hear her sigh on the other end.

“Anyway,” I say, “how’s the spring semester?”

“Pretty intense,” she admits, “but nothing I can’t deal with. Sounds like you got your hands full with Mr. Mullet over there. Does he still have that goofy thing?”

“Come off it,” I tell her. I lean my head into my free hand. “I think he looks pretty good.”

IV

The first time I got high was with Roy, Graduation day. It was fun, but I woke up sick as a dog from drinking way too much, and the experience was inextricable. So I didn’t do it again.

At least, not until the next time.

The next time, we had just pulled into the parking lot of a Denny’s. I’ve not had much of a social opportunity to smoke again, but the few chances I did have, I politely declined. This time, however, it’s Roy asking. And hell, we’re already this far.

“Live a little,” I hear him say, except he isn’t saying it. We’ve long since driven past the need for words. He offers a lit joint towards me, having already hit it himself, and I live a little.

We get high. We get hungry. We wander into the Denny’s off of I-64, so many miles into this trip that there’s truly no going back. And there, I feel loose enough to make a statement.

“Roy, how’d you not have a girlfriend yet?” I find myself asking.

He laughs, and he says, “Hey, Al, you should know by now.”

I don’t, but I give him a nod, smiling involuntarily, and say, “Yeah, guess so.”

We go back to the laser focus on eating these grand slams each. I finish before he does, and I give him a look.

“Roy…” I start. He’s barely looking but I see him nod.

“Mm.”

“Roy, I’m going to college this fall.”

I say it before I can stop myself. I’m not smiling anymore. For some reason, admitting it feels horrible. I don’t know why it has to be such a secret, but it has to. At least, up to this moment. Me and my big mouth.

“Hah!” he laughs, and says, “Nice one, Al.”

“Seriously,” I say. “I’m going to college.”

“Without your best friend?”

He isn’t getting it. Maybe he doesn’t want to.

I nod, somber.

He looks at me, with an expression I’ve never seen him give before. It’s destructive, implosive, like something’s about to go very, very wrong, but it’s not there just yet.

“Good on ya,” he says. He smiles involuntarily, and I can’t tell if it’s the pot or his chronic inability to express appropriate emotions. “Good for you. You’ll do great.”

Jesus.

“Thanks, Roy,” I say, but I feel like a devil.

And when we get back to the car, with plans on sleeping in the cocked back seats of his dad’s ‘78 Firebird, I figure why.

I’m gonna miss him. I think I hurt him, and I’m gonna miss him like Hell. There are more feelings here, but so many I can’t begin to parse it.

He sighs, he looks okay at first glance but his smile is weird and I think he’s not okay. I know him that well, at least. He sighs, and he looks so cool. His denim jacket, faded, with the cross on a beaded chain over his heart. His blond long-banged mullet, which should’ve been left in the ‘80s but on him it looks eternal. I wish he knew why I asked if he had a girlfriend. I wish I knew why I wanted to kiss him, the guy who, even with his bad boy attitude, could really have any girl he wanted if he only tried. He’s smart, he’s good looking, he drinks too much but who doesn’t at our age? And most of all, it hits me.

I’m gonna miss him.

When we get back to the car, in the darkness of God-knows o’clock, fully expecting the worst, I pull him by the shoulders and I kiss him on the mouth.

He kisses back.

V

On the drive leading up to Henrico, Virginia, having passed the Virginia border, I am dead silent.

Roy has taken to babbling endlessly about nonsense. Something about being pulled, like that talk we had before, at Graduation. He drank himself to sleep on gas station wine that night at the Denny’s, and this morning he’s taken it right back up.

“Al,” he says, “Al, d’you believe in angels?”

I white knuckle the wheel.

“Not really,” I say. “Kind of. I don’t know.”

“You’re really good, y’know,” he says, “taking care of me and all.”

I laugh, bitter and angry. He gets like this, sure, but it’s not always this bad. Not always on an impulsive road trip to fuck-knows-beach in Virginia.  I think I might be frustrated that I have to be the one to drive the next five hours to that motel in Henrico. I think I might be mad at him, for reasons I can’t articulate. I think I’m in love, and I’m so upset that I’m just mad at him.

I nod, and keep my eyes on the road.

“Really,” he says, “without you I’d be -”

“Don’t say it.”

He goes silent, at least for that moment. It’s a warning on my part, a warning that my heart can’t take any more.

“Al,” he says. An evil part of me starts to think I should ignore him when he calls my name. “Hey, Allen?”

“Yeah?” I say.

“Are you angry?”

I shake my head. I can’t bring myself to lie with my mouth, so I shake my head.

“Mm. Feels like you are.”

He takes another swig of MD 2020, Red flavor. He got a stranger to buy it for him at the last gas stop. I shake my head and keep driving. 

“I do,” he says with finality, “I mean, believe in angels. Kind of.”

“Yeah?”

He sighs. “Kind of. Feels like I’m, I guess drawn, to where I’m going. That stuff. It’s all written in the stars, Al.”

I don’t respond.

“Us, I mean,” he says.

I want to acknowledge it, so dearly do I want that. But right now, it all feels so evil.