Donnie didn’t say anything.
“And my best friend just died,
which makes me feel that much worse about the world. And don’t even talk to me
about antidepressants because I’ve tried them, and they don’t do it for me, so
I’m ruined.”
“That’s bad, but mine is worse.”
“It’s not a contest, Donnie. Let’s
say you and I got some stuff going on.”
“I have more,” said Donnie. “Way more.”
“Maybe you do, but about this
yelling—I’m gonna help you with that. If anybody raises their voice at you,
they’re gonna have to deal with me. That’s done. Today. I mean how you gonna
keep track of what you gotta keep track of if people are all up in your face,
yelling at you? So, you’ll get me, right? If anyone yells at you?”
He closed his eyes.
“That I can help you with. It will make me feel good to help you,
and I need to feel good about something.”
“OK, I’ll get you,” he said,
opening his eyes and looking at me.
“You promise?”
“He who
speaks falsehood shall not maintain his position before me,” said Donnie, holding
up his hand as if taking an oath.
“OK. And, Donnie, you can’t tell
anybody about my hyperventilating or being in the hospital across the street
and stuff. I gotta rep.”
A little smile curled Donnie’s lip,
and man, that smile filled the moment with lightness and simplicity, as if
Donnie and I were just two normies sharing a light conversation on a sunny
afternoon.
“You don’t think I got street
cred?”
“No.”
“That’s cold, Donnie. I got mad
street cred.”
Donnie shook his head, his smile
becoming a giggle. I reached over and patted his shoulder in camaraderie,
prompting him to scream out as if he’d been attacked.